


And We Shall Rise

by mackillian



Series: Heed Our Words [4]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-29 13:21:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 23
Words: 186,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13927962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mackillian/pseuds/mackillian
Summary: As Morrigan continues her work beyond the Fade, Malcolm, Líadan, and the rest left behind on Thedas chase leads and seek refuge as they try to evade the fires of change. AU. Sequel to Their Shallow Graves.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “When darkness comes  
> and swallows light  
> heed our words  
> and we shall rise.”  
> —excerpt from The Ballad of Ayesleigh, 5:20 Exalted

“Only the Word dispels the darkness upon us.”

— _Chant of Light, Verse Unknown_

**Leliana**

**9:30 Dragon**

“What have you there?” 

One thing Leliana had learned while traveling with Morrigan for such a long time was that Morrigan was curious. She suspected it was so because of how Morrigan had been raised—a lonely child, her only company the Korcari Wilds and Flemeth. People were a curiosity to her, curiosity in how they worked and how they felt in comparison to her. It made Morrigan entirely too observant, and never hesitant to voice her observations, especially if it suited to make another person uncomfortable.

Morrigan, Leliana had found, loved to make her feel uncomfortable, as she had just done. “It is nothing.”

“And that is why you cling to it so tightly?”

Leliana looked down at the small vial tucked away in her hand, which none of the others had seen, not even when she’d filled it. Which meant of course Morrigan noticed. Morrigan had been right, however. Her hand held the vial tightly, lest she drop something of such import. “It is nothing to you.”

“No? ‘Tis powerful magic you hide in your hand, bard. It is of interest to me.”

“I hold no magic, Morrigan, whatever you might think. Perhaps you see the remnants of my having been in the presence of the ashes of the Maker’s Chosen.” Leliana picked up her pace, hoping to pull ahead of the witch.

In a true expression of her interest, Morrigan matched Leliana’s speed. “‘Tis something more solid than your foolish belief. What do you hold?”

“A pinch of the most holy relic on Thedas. It is not magic you feel. It is the Maker’s light, the Maker’s hope and love.”

“I think you believe me stupid if you expect me to fall for your vapid act of faith. What you hold now in your hand is magic. Unlike your faith, magic is real. The others may not feel it, but the magic rolls off it in waves. And here you walk, speaking of a prophet you burned and a god who has turned His back on you not once, but twice, instead of acknowledging the reality of what you hold—powerful magic. Open your eyes, or it will consume you.”

Before Leliana could respond, there was a shift in the wind, and then Morrigan was gone, having taken to the skies in her raven form. Leliana dreaded the apostate’s return, when she would surely inform the others of what Leliana had taken. Then Morrigan surprised her.

She told no one.

**9:32 Dragon**

Though Mother Dorothea had expressed the belief to Leliana that Wynne could be swayed to their cause, she had not mentioned the difficulty of the task.

Wynne was not easily swayed. Nor was she easily convinced, persuaded, coaxed, cajoled, or coerced. She did not receive Mother Dorothea’s invitation well, and Leliana’s appearance only made the situation exponentially more difficult.

“You.” Wynne jabbed a finger in her direction. “What you have done—”

“I followed the Maker’s will, as best I could,” said Leliana. Though she again fervently believed in the truth of her mission, and she was a trained bard, her words did little to convey her fervor. The explanation fell flat.

For Wynne, the explanation fell so flat it shattered. “Then I would have to question your interpretation of what you believe the Maker said to you, to do such reprehensible things to people whom you named friend.” Indicating her readiness to leave, her eyes flicked more than once to the closed door of Grand Cleric Philippa’s borrowed study. 

“It is the only explanation I have. It was not done to cause pain, even though it did.”

“It certainly did. You hurt every single one of us with your grand ploy. Most of all, you hurt Alistair.” Wynne held Leliana’s gaze, her narrowed eyes containing both hurt and accusation. “During the Blight, I had come to know Alistair as a fine lad, skilled in battle, but quite inexperienced when it came to affairs of the heart. I never wanted to see him—or any of you—get hurt. As I watched, his relationship with you blossomed, and I had come to believe there was nothing I needed to be concerned over. I had believed you to be sincere and guileless; that you had opened your heart to him as much as he had to you. When you died—when we all had believed you died—it crushed him.”

“It changed him, yes? For the better.” Though, Leliana often wished that Alistair’s shift in outlook hadn’t come at such a great expense.

For a moment, Wynne looked to object, her mouth even opening to deliver her objection. Then she pressed her lips into a firm, disapproving line before she spoke again. “Yes, it did. The experience forged him into who he is today, his emotions battle-hardened and his sense of self secure. But it took a lot of pain to put him through that growth, and you were the one to hurt him.”

“Not every plan the Maker has for us to walk is guaranteed to be empty of pain. Andraste is merely one example, as is Archon Hessarian, Disciple Havard, or perhaps even Maferath. Without his betrayal, Andraste never would have fulfilled her purpose.”

“So you compare yourself Maferath?”

“If I am, I have yet to be forgiven, as he was.”

The accusation in Wynne’s eyes lessened, and her expression became more thoughtful. “Maferath’s forgiveness was granted in the Canticle of Silence—a Dissonant Verse, and thus stricken from Chantry record.”

“Yet, it is a verse each one of us knows,” Dorothea said quietly. When Wynne gave her a startled look, Dorothea answered with a small smile. Then she asked, “You show scholarship of the Chant, even the Dissonant Verses. Do you believe?”

“I do, to some extent.” Suspicion returned to Wynne’s face. “Why do you ask?”

“From record, it is easy to see you are a good person—”

“If you think flattery will get you anywhere—”

“I am not going in the direction you believe I am, Senior Enchanter. I do not seek to flatter you. What I want to know is why you do the good works you do. If you would be so kind as to tell me, why do you?”

At first, Wynne’s initial silence made Leliana believe she would not answer. 

And then Wynne said, “Because I enjoy it. I enjoy teaching others and helping them. I do not seek recognition or approval from my peers, or a distant god.” The last was a point all on its own, and her eyes flung it at the two representatives of the Chantry. “Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

Dorothea nodded. “It does.”

“Good.” Wynne gave a nod of her own, and turned to Leliana. “Now I wish to satisfy a curiosity of my own. Help me to understand why I should even contemplate helping you or anyone or anything else to do with you, considering what you have done.”

It was a valid question, and yet Leliana struggled to find a suitable answer. Everything she thought of seemed trite, and would fall as flatly as her answer from before. Wynne was no fool, however, and would see through dishonesty from her after all that had happened. “We wish to change the world.”

To Leliana’s surprise, Wynne chuckled. “You don’t envision anything small, do you, child? Tell me, how would you change it?”

“Things as they are... they are not fair.” Then Leliana struggled for the right words to describe what she felt in her heart, what she saw in their future—should she be able to help it come to fruition.

Dorothea saw her stumble, and offered her help by taking up what Leliana could not. “The magi are the Maker’s children as much as any of us are,” Dorothea said to Wynne. “Yet, they are not treated so by the very people who claim to spread the Maker’s word, who claim to spread the Maker’s love and guidance. If the Chantry does not adhere to the Maker’s precepts, the Chant that will one day spread to the four corners of the world will not be sung correctly, and He will not return.”

“So it is not about the dignity of the magi at all?”

“Of course it is. The very act of giving mages the dignity deserved of any of the Maker’s creations will change the world all on its own.”

“How will this change be accomplished, Your Reverence?” 

Wynne’s use of Dorothea’s title allowed Leliana to hope that she had been swayed. It was the first time in the entire negotiation—for this was no mere conversation—that Wynne had used it.

“By following a plan that has been in place for decades,” Dorothea said without hesitation. “There will be a day when we will have need of a spirit healer who is wise and can provide others with guidance. We believe that to be you, Senior Enchanter. When the time comes, Seeker Leliana will find you, and then the two of you will work together to bring about the change we all seek.”

“If I were to agree, I could not depart immediately.”

Dorothea shook her head. “No need. There is a journey Leliana must take first, and you have your own duties to attend, Senior Enchanter. We have all heard the new Theirin heir will be born soon, and that you have been asked to help with the delivery.”

Wynne nodded before she looked at Leliana. “How long?”

“I am not sure. Weeks, perhaps months. One must protect their friends, even when they will not protect themselves. I will return after it is finished, and we will begin our work then.”

Wynne studied Leliana for a while, taking a measure for standards to which Leliana was not privy. Yet, Leliana did not look away, for if she were to come up short in Wynne’s estimation, she would come up short for everything she was.

Then Wynne said, “I will help.”

That Leliana did not sigh out loud with relief was a credit to her training as a bard, but it was a close thing.

The next morning, Leliana began her trip across Ferelden to the market outside Orzammar’s gates. Once there, it took time, gold, and other efforts she was not fond of, but the arrangements were made. Surface dwarves who still considered themselves miners—for they knew no other trade—had been convinced to dig near an unstable portion of the steep mountainsides bordering Gherlen’s Pass. The Carta had been convinced to temporarily engage in the trade of highwaymen, to which they easily took, along Gherlen’s Pass. For a few days, they preyed upon unsuspecting carriages, relieving them of cargo before allowing them to continue to Orlais, albeit with a lightened load. On a day when Leliana had infiltrated the mining camp, the Carta stopped a carriage bearing the heraldry of Redcliffe. The Carta took the gold, the jewels, and the babe inside. Above the pass, directly above the halted carriage in particular, mining had not ceased. There was an unfortunate misjudgment from an unduly influenced miner, the results of which tumbled down the mountainside in a rush of rocks and boulders. Aside from the abducted babe, none survived.

Shortly thereafter, the Carta gave up their new line of work, and the illegal mining practice ceased. The babe was brought to King Bhelen, along with bodies pulled from the rockslide and the story of how the babe had been found nearby. Messages were sent out, the human Chantry contacted, and investigators sent back to identify the dead. Once they had, another message was sent to Denerim, to inform Ferelden’s king of the deaths of subjects that had almost become former subjects.

Leliana would never tell Alistair what had truly happened. She knew he would suspect, but she would never confirm it. It was better for him not to know for sure.

Weeks later, after another round of messages, the birth of a royal heir, and a long overdue wedding, Leliana met Wynne outside Denerim. They had two horses and supplies to last for weeks, if necessary. What they did not have was camaraderie, for Leliana’s deeds during the Blight had destroyed what ties they had formed back then. For days, they engaged in no real conversations, riding and camping with a silence so immense it seemed its own person.

Silence had never been something Leliana tolerated well outside the walls of a chantry.

“The Chantry ceremony for Malcolm and Líadan was lovely, no?”

Though she did not divert her gaze from the road ahead, Wynne asked, “You were there?”

“Hidden, yes, but I wanted to see. They were my friends, Wynne, though they will never view me as such again.”

Wynne slowly turned and peered at her for a moment. “You were the one who arranged for the dispensation, weren’t you?”

“It was Revered Mother Dorothea’s work.”

“Brought to her attention by you.”

“Perhaps.” Not wanting to return to the oppressive silence, Leliana kept talking, but changed the subject. “How is the new prince?”

“Do you truly wish to hear the answer?” asked Wynne. “Or are you punishing yourself by listening to what you might have had?”

Leliana rocked a little in the saddle, caught off guard by the painfully accurate observation. “A… little of both.” 

“He is a beautiful boy.”

It was a kindness that Wynne said nothing more about him, or about the boy’s parents. It was Leliana who kept the silence, after that.

“Where are we going?” Wynne asked the next morning. “I had thought we would go to Orlais.”

“We are. It is not healthy for me to stay in Ferelden, yet I have one final task to complete before I leave, possibly for good.”

“And just what is this task?”

Leliana tilted her head as she searched for the right way to describe it. Then it came to her, an idea from heart to mind. “A pilgrimage.”

The message from long ago had instructed Leliana to bury the ashes, and she had—for both the plan the message referred to, and the ashes she’d held since their visit to the Frostbacks. Leaving Ferelden as she was, she needed to bring them with her, and to do that, she needed to find them. If she left them, they stood the chance of falling into the hands of a freeholder plowing his field, or a young child digging for whatever it was children dug for. If a person such as those found the vial, they wouldn’t know what they held, and they would cast them away. Such a thing could not be allowed to happen.

The ashes were important, after all.

The detour added a more than a week’s travel to their trip, taking the West Road to the Imperial Highway before cutting south just after Redcliffe. When they passed the clearing the army had used as a camp after Leliana’s last battle, she did not look at it. It was part of her past that she would not regret, not any longer. To look at it now would only invite regret to return, and so she did not look. Wynne said nothing, and for that, Leliana was grateful. Only when they stepped into the fallow field north of Honnleath did Wynne break her silence.

“This is the field where the majority of the Battle of Honnleath took place,” she said.

“I know,” said Leliana.

Wynne let out a huff, but said nothing more as she followed the bard to the opposite side of the field. At the base of an oak tree, a large black rock poked from the ground. There, the ashes had been buried, between rock and tree. Leliana fell to her knees and set to digging with the small shovel she’d borrowed from a freeholder’s barn. This task was about Andraste, so the transgression of stealing would be forgiven.

It didn’t take long until Leliana uncovered the wooden box that held a leather pouch, which, in turn, held the vial of ashes. She opened the box.

There it rested. A portion of the ashes of the Maker’s bride, Andraste.

Wynne, who had been gazing out at the field where so many had died, whipped around as Leliana lifted the pouch from the box. “Those are the ashes,” she said, her voice hard with accusation. “They should be returned to their resting place.”

Leliana hadn’t expected Wynne to be so against her possessing the ashes. Nor did she look forward to a trip into the Frostbacks unless it was through Gherlen’s Pass. “I do not know if—”

“You had no right to take them.”

“I believe I had more right to them than Arl Eamon.” As Wynne seemed to consider it, Leliana stood up. “They should not have been used for a man who ended up committing treason.”

“In the light of recent events, I agree they were wasted on him. Perhaps no one had a right to take them.”

Leliana looked Wynne directly in the eyes, unwilling to back down after all their trials. “We all went through the gauntlet, Wynne, not just Alistair. We all faced the challenges presented, and we were all allowed access to Andraste’s ashes. I took a pinch, as we were all told we could. Nothing more.”

Wynne did not look convinced. “You are equivocating. Those ashes belong in their rightful place, not carried about in some common pouch. They hold too much power for any one of us to handle. The temple was absolutely rife with strong magic, and the same magic resides in those ashes you hold. You should see them returned.”

While Leliana wasn’t certain that Wynne’s demand was the best path for them to take, she did want to see if they could once again find the resting place of the Maker’s bride. “Will you accompany me?”

“I would be honored to visit Her resting place again.”

They left the shovel and empty hole behind. The box they burned that night in their campfire. 

At the top of the mountain, past the abandoned village of Haven, they found only a mountaintop: bleak and cold, the sky shrouded in clouds, bare grey tips of rocks breaking through the blanket of snow. There was nothing there for them, as if there had never been.

“Perhaps I should scatter them,” said Leliana. She held her voice to just beyond a whisper, as if they risked being hunted if they spoke any louder.

“No. If the temple has disappeared, then there must be some meaning to your still having the ashes you took.” Wynne didn’t look at Leliana. Instead, she focused her gaze on where the temple had once been, if they had not collectively imagined it. “You are their guardian, but for what purpose, it is not ours to know.”

“We should leave.” Leliana felt compelled to do so, rushed, as if danger waited for them if they dallied any longer. “Mother Dorothea waits for us. She has questions to which we do not know the answers, and so she wants them investigated.”

“What sort of questions?”

“She would like to see if Tranquility can be reversed. She wants to know if Tranquility can be done in such a way that it does not rob a mage of their mind and soul.”

Wynne abruptly turned from the missing temple to the woman at her side. “You have whatever aid I can provide.”

Leliana nodded. “Then we go.”

As they descended, Leliana thought she heard the low flap of high dragon’s wings. She did not look back. There was nothing for her there.

**9:38 Dragon**

Once she had the ashes, Leliana did not return to Ferelden for a long time. Alistair had made it clear she was not welcome there, as threats of death often did. She did not wish to force him to kill her, or be forced to kill him, so she stayed away. Wynne split her time between doing the Divine’s work with researching Tranquility, and with being the sometimes court healer for the King of Ferelden. Because Alistair, his family, and his advisors did not know of Wynne’s other work, she remained in their good graces. The Fereldan throne and Ferelden in general kept a healthy distrust of the Chantry as a whole, given the events that had occurred years earlier.

Yet the Chantry, for the time being, was not concerned about Ferelden. Dorothea, who had risen to the office of the Divine and taken the ruling name of Justinia V, had summoned Leliana to investigate a brewing threat. The situation, as it appeared, threatened not only the Free Marches, but perhaps all of Thedas.

“Blights aside,” said Justinia as she paced in her study—as a rule, Justinia did not pace, for it showed anxiety, and so Leliana was alarmed, “the situation in Kirkwall is the most dire threat to Thedas since the Qunari invasion. If the burning coals of the situation are not dampened, it will soon burst into a flame that no one will be able to stop. It will become worse for the mages, not better, no matter what we have tried to do and what we plan to do. These ‘Resolutionists’ threaten everyone. Not just mages, not just templars, not just the Chantry. If they continue their acts of terror, which have only been small, thus far, I will not be able to fix what is so broken in our beloved Chantry.”

“What would you have me do, Most Holy?” asked Leliana.

“You are my left hand, child. Find out what these Resolutionists mean to do, and what they want. Will they always respond with escalations of violence no matter what the negotiation? Or are they willing to discuss matters like civilized people? If they will only act with violence in order to bring forth their changes, and we cannot find the leaders driving them, then the Chantry may have to march upon Kirkwall. If not, I fear for what the Resolutionists will do to the city and its inhabitants. Or what the city might do to its mages, if the threats against Grand Cleric Elthina’s life are carried out.”

“There have been threats to Her Grace?”

Justinia nodded. “It took me by surprise, as well, given how beloved Elthina is to her people. Yet, these Resolutionist mages may not view her neutrality as a desired trait. If you believe she is in true danger, please extend our protection to her.”

“Is there anything else I can do?” Though the Resolutionists were the most physically threatening of Kirkwall’s problems, they were not the only ones. There were multiple sides in the heated, tangled situation in the city-state.

“Yes.” Justinia settled herself in the chair she kept next to the window overlooking the Grand Cathedral’s courtyard. Telling Leliana of her mission seemed to have relieved her somewhat. “You know as well as I do that Elthina’s neutrality has to do with the issues between Knight-Commander Meredith and First Enchanter Orsino. While Meredith closes ranks and carries out harsher sanctions on the Circle in the Gallows, Orsino campaigns for relaxing those restrictions. Meanwhile, there are troubling reports of templar misbehavior and terrible treatment of the mages, and yet other reports of apostates and even Circle mages resorting to blood magic and turning into abominations. While it is easy to see a mage who has become an abomination, it is much harder to see what templars have become abominations with their behaviors. The templars can take care of the problematic maleficarum and abominations, but the magi cannot do anything with the irresponsible templars.”

A frown briefly marring her face, Justinia stood and stepped over to her desk. As Leliana watched, the Divine opened a slim drawer and removed an envelope. Only after she’d handed it to Leliana did she speak again. “One templar there sent me a peculiar letter, outlining a peculiar—and horrific—so-called solution to the problem of what he perceives as uncontrollable mages. His solution is reprehensible, and I would like you to bring him my answer. While you are there, if you determine that he will not heed my telling him no, and to stop, then you will stop Ser Alrik by any means necessary.”

“Yes, Most Holy. I will do as you ask.”

“Then the Maker watch over you as you carry out His work.”

Kirkwall astonished Leliana with its hidden darkness. In the Gallows, she found many abominable acts carried out not by abominations, but by templars, as Justinia had mentioned. She observed for days, searching out the source of the darkness. While Knight-Commander Meredith was on the far side of righteous, she still carried some of the Maker’s light with her work. What was happening was darker, more frightening, and resulted in a larger number of Tranquil mages than should have been in a Circle of Kirkwall’s size.

The source turned out to be the templar Justinia had sent Leliana to confront.

In the shadows of his modestly-sized room, Leliana waited for Alrik to return from his day’s duty. Return he did, an hour after curfew, smelling of blood, with his face set in a very much self-satisfied way. Once he had shed his armor and placed it on his armor stand, Leliana revealed herself. 

To his credit, he did not startle. “Who are you? What are you doing in my chambers?” His hand reached for the grip of his Sword of Mercy as he spoke. 

Leliana leapt and knocked his hand away before his fingers could close on it. Then she twisted his arm behind his back and kicked him downward. Before he could get to his feet, Leliana had a dagger to his throat. “I am the left hand of the Divine. I believe you sent a letter to her some months ago.”

“Yes! I did!” Alrik frowned at the dagger. “Is this a test of my fortitude? I assure you, my solution was sincere in how I presented it. The number of mages in the Free Marches has doubled in the past three years alone, and they’re past controlling using any regular means. Tranquility for all would mean they would be pacified and peaceful, retain their usefulness, and do what they’re told. We’ll keep their souls from the Void and rescue them from their sins. Best of all, once they’re Tranquil, they’ll do anything you ask. Anything.” His eyes drifted once more to the dagger that had yet to leave his throat, and then back up at Leliana. “Did Her Perfection give you an answer to my message?”

“She did.” 

His body was found the next day in Kirkwall’s harbor, another victim of walking drunk near the docks. Drowning was not uncommon in Lowtown, either by accident or by design. 

No one mourned his loss.

Leliana continued to watch Kirkwall’s internal workings. Templar brutality had been momentarily dulled, but she well knew there would be another to take Alrik’s place, in time. Meredith continued to issue increasingly draconian measures that were met with grumbles from reasonable templars, and many complaints from residents of Kirkwall’s Circle. The complaints, for the most part, were valid. While the restrictions hadn’t yet achieved the level of abuse, they were certainly the tightest restrictions on Thedas. Even mages of the White Spire in Val Royeaux had more freedoms. Just barely, but a little more.

In marketplaces, and in some less savory places in the city, Leliana caught rumors of apostate attacks on patrolling templars. Then she heard more rumors, of apostates attacking people they believed to be an agent of the Divine. Those unfortunate souls had been victims of Leliana’s having started rumors of herself. The vague description meant the net the Resolutionists cast was too large, and caught too many innocents in its violent hold. 

She could not find a leader. She searched from Hightown and even into Darktown, but all she found were apostates who helped others. There was the Darktown healer, there was the apostate protecting orphans in Lowtown, and another apostate who made potions and poultices for those who needed them. The work of the Resolutionists was everywhere one looked, but the Resolutionists themselves seemed exist nowhere, except in shadow. 

The sole cure for Kirkwall’s illness would be to clean it out entirely, before the violence spread from the city to the greater Free Marches, and from the Free Marches to the rest of Thedas. If the mages rebelled before Justinia had the chance to fix what had long been broken, the Chantry would shatter, the templars and Seekers along with it, and many countries would follow.

She heard enough talk of plots against Elthina, even as other Kirkwallers proclaimed their adoration for their Grand Cleric. In light, to most, Elthina was beloved to her flock. To others, to mages who felt she had not done enough to curb the likes of Alrik, or to keep Meredith from assuming the responsibilities of the viscountcy, Elthina was a threat who needed to be neutralized to bring about change.

Leliana visited Elthina herself, late in the night, as Elthina read in the chantry’s vast library. Unlike with Alrik, Leliana allowed herself to be heard as she shut the door and approached the older woman sitting at a table. 

“I had wondered how long it would take for Her Perfection to send one of hers to see me,” Elthina said quietly, before she even looked up. She smiled softly at Leliana’s raised eyebrow. “None of ours here walk quite the same way as an agent of the Divine. Perhaps Sebastian did, when he was here, but no longer.” Elthina crossed her legs and folded her hands over her knees. “I take it you have been observing Kirkwall for some time?”

“I have, Your Grace.”

“And you have found a city in peril?”

“Its people in peril, in the very least. I could not find the source of the violent unrest, yet how they chose to react to my presence condemns them, and it may condemn all of Kirkwall.”

“So you could not find the leader of the Resolutionists?”

“No, Your Grace.”

Elthina sighed: a soft, sad sound. “I had hoped you would. I wish to speak with them, to see what it is they would like us to do.”

“They want freedom for all mages, at any cost. They have engaged in acts of terrorism and sabotage throughout Thedas, and will not stop until they have destroyed all that we know in the name of freedom. Unless mages are freed to rule themselves, they have declared that they will show every person in Thedas how little protection the Circle offers them.”

“In some cases, they are right. Perhaps, sometimes, in Kirkwall’s own Circle. I heard about Ser Alrik. Your work, I presume?”

“The Maker’s work.”

Elthina let out a huff of slight amusement; recognition of what Leliana had said and not said. Then she returned to serious matters regarding her role in the plight of the magi. “How can I work with them if they will not see me? Not speak with me?”

Leliana knelt in front of the Grand Cleric, taking her hands in her own. “Your Grace, they wish to see you dead. They believe you a wall impeding them from their mission. They will not barter with you. They will not deal. They will not beg. They will not ask. They will merely move you out of their way by sending you to the Maker’s side. You must leave, Your Grace. There is safe refuge for you at the Grand Cathedral.”

“I cannot leave my people, not now, of all times. No matter how justified the fear of what will come might be, it is no excuse to try saving my own neck by abandoning those whom it is my responsibility to shepherd. I will stay.” Elthina removed her hands from Leliana’s, and brushed her hand over Leliana’s hair, as if comforting a child. “The Maker will watch over me. Do not fear, child. There is no greater devotion than to lay one’s life at the Maker’s feet. He will see me through this. He will see all of us through this.”

“I will let the Divine know of your choice,” Leliana said as she rose to her feet. “And I will pray for you.”

“Pray for Kirkwall. Her people need Andraste’s guidance far more than I.”

The prayers would go unanswered.


	2. Chapter 2

****“Happiness is fragile. Nothing can be built upon it that will last.”

— _The Qun_ , Canto Unknown

**Líadan**

The shout of dismay from Cáel came as no surprise to Líadan. Cáel had started in on teasing his sister before they’d even had their morning meal, and he’d not let up throughout the day. Coupled with the recent spate of unseasonably cold, heavy rains and the excessive mud churned up in the yards, which meant they spent more time cooped up indoors than running off energy outside, the two children had been in rather foul moods. Nuala had given up and kicked them out into the gardens, rain and mud be damned, and Líadan had been about to do just the same with them. Though the rain had lightened to a mist, the children would’ve remained undaunted even had it not.

Thus it wasn’t unexpected when she heard the result of Ava finally losing her temper at her brother and retaliating not a short time later. Líadan, Revas loping by her side, rounded the corner to find Cáel on his backside in the mud, his dark blue eyes wide with a sort of surprise Líadan had never seen in him. As he tried to regain his footing, she noticed marks on his shoes that looked remarkably like scorch marks, if she hadn’t known better. Near her brother, Ava’s eyes were no less wide, and her own surprise was laced with a good amount of panic.

_No_.

A frisson of cold raced from Líadan’s chest to her toes, taking with it the scant hope she’d carried since Ava had been born. It was too soon, too early, she was only _six_ , and it shouldn’t have happened at all, and she desperately wanted it to be a mistake, that there was another plausible explanation other that the frighteningly obvious. Líadan looked around, searching for witnesses who could reassure her that she’d mistakenly assumed the cause of the results in front of her. Kennard wasn’t around, which wasn’t unusual when the children were on palace grounds, given the Royal Guard’s presence throughout. Nuala was there, standing near some of the shrubs with leaves the tired green of late summer. Her bias could be different, Líadan thought as she briefly looked away from her children and toward their nurse. Maybe she’d witnessed something else, an explanation that could erase Líadan’s panic.

But Nuala’s eyes were deeply troubled as she stared at the children. Feeling an alternate explanation slipping through her fingers, Líadan turned back to ask for answers. When she did, she found Ava helping her brother to his feet, Revas behind Ava to keep the girl from falling backwards, and Cáel doing everything he could to avoid eye contact with any of them. That, in of itself, was unusual, because he often defiantly maintained eye contact when challenged. It was one of the few quirks he’d inherited from his natural mother, Morrigan. Fortunately, it was held in balance by his Theirin inability to lie.

Líadan looked down to where his eyes were focused, only to discover he now had bare feet, his toes squirming in the cold mud. “Where are your shoes?”

He looked up quickly, the surprise gone from his eyes, and replaced by a feigned innocence. “Hm? What?”

“Shoes. You had them on a minute ago.” Cáel had managed to lose several things over short course of his seven years of life, but he’d not yet lost a pair of shoes, and never anything so quickly.

“Did I?”

“Your toes would be frozen by now, otherwise.” And he had to be getting colder by the second, considering his entire back was coated in frigid mud. If the situation hadn’t been so dire due to what she might have just witnessed, she already would’ve sent him inside to change.

He glanced at his feet, as if assessing, and his rusty colored hair tumbled back over his forehead to cover his furrowed brow. “Probably.”

“Probably.” Líadan crossed her arms, readying for the interrogation her children were insisting upon if she ever wanted to uncover the truth. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“We fought.”

“You don’t say.”

“I got mad and pushed him,” said Ava, who never volunteered _anything_ , and Líadan was starting to wonder if these were really her children.

“You aren’t leaving anything out, are you?”

Ava closed her mouth, her light green eyes darting away. Cáel watched for a moment, and then faced their mother, his mouth set in the kind of determination he got when he and Ava closed ranks and covered for each other. It was behavior both heartwarming and infuriating. At the moment, it was more the last and less the first. “Well, you came over,” said Cáel.

She would have to split them up and question them separately if she were to get real answers. It was the only way in situations like this, where their usually tumultuous sibling relationship gained a startling amount of camaraderie. And Revas wasn’t helping at all, letting Ava cling to her without trying to get her to play, which only provided further evidence that something was amiss. “Creators, just—”

Shouts and the squelching pound of boots on sodden ground came from the other side of the garden. Líadan dropped the questioning of her wayward children, told them to get behind her, and then drew her sword as she peered through the line of shrubs. She cursed inwardly at not having her bow, but carrying it around the compound and palace wasn’t practical. At least she had her sword, which served to channel the small amount of magic she had into something she could use to hit things, sometimes even with lightning through the blade.

_Magic_. There was too much of it around. Just last week, Teagan had expressed concerns about Rowan. And now… wasn’t the time to think about it.

Revas kept her growls low as she wedged herself in between Líadan and the children. The shouting hadn’t stopped, and she still couldn’t make out what was being said. Either someone had gotten past the palace’s defenses and were really noisy assassins, or someone had pulled a prank on a new guard. No matter which, she had no intention of being caught unprepared.

Nuala appeared beside her, her own dagger drawn and ready. “If anyone’s come for them, they won’t be leaving. Not with the both of us here to stop it.”

Inwardly, Líadan smiled. In addition to being the children’s nurse, Nuala was one of her closest friends, and cared for the children as if they were her own. She also wasn’t a woman to be trifled with, for she knew how to properly wield the dagger she held. Her cousin, Rhian, also a Grey Warden, had trained her.

“Nan! I didn’t even know you had a dagger!” said Ava.

“Be _quiet_ ,” said Cáel. “You want to lead them right to us?”

“You don’t even know if they’re mean people.”

“It isn’t like Mamae draws her sword on nice people.”

“I’ve seen her draw it on Papa, so—”

“We were _sparring_ ,” said Líadan. “Now, hush, both of you.” Of course the two of them couldn’t decide to reign in their chattiness now instead of earlier, not with the father they had. But her concern had already started to abate as she recognized Kennard’s voice amongst whoever was running their way. While sprinting guards didn’t bode well, it meant there wasn’t an immediate danger about to burst from the foliage.

Kennard even went around the shrubs instead of through them, which was another good sign. Immediate danger wouldn’t warrant treating the gardens with delicacy. The bodyguard gave the children a reassuring smile, tight as it was, before he addressed Líadan. “There was an attack outside the compound,” he said as he motioned with his hands for the royal guards with him to set a perimeter. “We aren’t sure who the target was, and the Silver Order was still dealing with them when I left. What’s strange is that it was a bunch of dwarves who were doing the attacking. Warden Oghren called them Carta. You ever hear a thing like that in Denerim?”

Líadan frowned. “In Orzammar or Kirkwall, maybe. Amaranthine, sometimes, but Hildur’s presence curbs the Carta’s own.” She didn’t mention that Hildur’s idea of stopping the Carta had a lot to do with Hildur’s propensity for conscripting the offending Carta thugs. It was remarkably effective, yet did fine work to illustrate that the Wardens would take anybody with the necessary skills. Former dusters, Hildur had explained, always had the abilities if they survived to adulthood. Sigrun had readily agreed, and Líadan’s lone venture with Sigrun into Dust Town had reinforced it. “Either way, if it’s the Carta, then I doubt they’re after us.”

“I’m not taking any chances.”

“Kennard, you’re paid to not take chances,” said Nuala.

“And the Crown’s gold buys a lot of vigilance.” Then he inclined his head toward the two muddied children. “And the both of them warrant it, I’ll grant you.”

There was another commotion at the other end of the gardens, and shouts traded between guards as a new guard ran in their direction. Kennard had a surly look to give to the young Silver Order guard who trotted up behind him, possibly because the younger man had the audacity to not appear out of breath. 

“Senior Warden, Guard-Lieutenant,” said the young guard, “there was an attack outside the Warden compound when a group of Wardens left through the front door.”

“We know,” said Kennard. “Get on with it.”

“We killed them quick, with no injuries to us or the Wardens. We assumed they were after the Prince, but the witnesses said they were talking about someone named Hawke. Warden-Commander Hildur said it was the Carta who’d attacked, and that they were after Warden Bethany, not Prince Malcolm.” He took a breath, his sprint and the delivery of his report finally catching up with him. “The Warden-Commander sent me to tell Senior Warden Líadan that she wants to see her in the compound’s library as soon as possible.”

Líadan held back sigh, frustrated that duty meant not being able to deal with whatever had transpired between Cáel and Ava. Even in garrison, the Wardens demanded a great deal of attention. “Tell her I’ll be there in a few minutes,” she said to the guard, who thumped his chest in salute and ran off.

“Guard-Lieutenant?” Nuala said to Kennard, an amused smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“He’s new.” Kennard shrugged. “Gets all fancy with the actual titles. Soon enough, he’ll just refer to everyone as ‘ser.’ Just has to get the whole ‘working with the Wardens and the royal family’ stars out of his eyes. He’s a fine warrior, though. Makes the adjustment bearable.”

“What about the new guards who aren’t?”

“They get sent to Guard-Captain Kylon. He’s got far more patience than anyone has a right to.”

Though she recognized the humor in the comment, Líadan didn’t feel it. She willed herself not to betray the worry she carried, and then turned to Nuala. “I’ll need to go.” Her children had to be safe with her. Nuala had been raised alongside an apostate and had kept her secret even from the Wardens until they actually met Rhian. The conscription that followed had nothing to do with the revelation to the Wardens, however. That was placed squarely at the Chantry’s feet. “I don’t know how long the meeting will be.”

Nuala met Líadan’s steady gaze with one of her own. “No need to worry. I’ve got them, like always.” The understanding was unspoken, yet implicit in her eyes. Nothing would be discussed and no secrets would be revealed, at least not until Líadan had a chance to address it, herself.

She nodded to Nuala, and looked over at the children. “I’ll be back later. Try not to track mud everywhere.” Then she turned her look to Revas. “And you, don’t encourage them. You’re just as bad.”

Revas barked, either in agreement, or possibly to relay her objection to the near-insult, and then ran circles around Cáel and Ava, who appeared to have the same measure of indignity.

Then Líadan headed for the compound, where she’d already spent most of her day. While she had agreed some time ago that for Cáel and Ava’s combined safety and need for schooling they would live in the palace, she hadn’t agreed to spend more time there than absolutely necessary. That life wasn’t hers, not as a whole. Only a small piece of it was. When not with her children, the majority of her daytime hours were spent in the compound or on training exercises. Malcolm tried to do the same, but he often got pulled into the same meetings as Alistair, even though he was merely the King’s brother, and not the King. But Sylaise forbid, if anything happened to Alistair, Malcolm would be a co-regent with Anora for Dane, until the heir apparent reached his majority. It meant that Malcolm had to know the same current information and future plans as Anora and Alistair did, and to voice his own agreement and disagreement on policies in the hopes of preventing any differences of opinion, should the worst happen.

He hated it, but understood the need and tolerated it. Only when merciless teasing came from the likes of Fergus and Teagan did he really let loose with his frustrations. It was understandable. 

She caught up with Sigrun in the main hall, and together they went into the library. Malcolm and Bethany were already there, with Bethany seated and frowning, and Malcolm perusing the rows of books.

“I had no idea you were dealing with the Carta,” Sigrun said to Bethany as she took a seat next to her.

Bethany’s frown only deepened. “I’m not. Haven’t. I never have. My sister, however, well. There’s a strong possibility, but I don’t know why they’d come after me. It’s not like I’m any easier a target than she is.”

“I didn’t even know the Carta had a presence in Denerim.” Malcolm abandoned his browsing and walked to where the others sat. “If they did, they were remarkably quiet about it. Well, had been, considering their attack in broad daylight, right in front of the compound. I think only an attack in the marketplace would’ve had more witnesses.” He dropped into the space next to Líadan on the short sofa nominally used for reading, but normally used for naps by various Wardens. “First they thought they were after me, which sent Kennard sprinting for the palace. I bet he’ll never agree to help train the Silver Order again.”

“I still don’t know why they’d want to kill me in the first place,” said Bethany.

“They didn’t want you dead,” Hildur said as she walked into the room and quickly closed the door behind her. She had a scrap of paper in her hand that she showed the small group. “They had a note on them.”

“Then why attack?” asked Bethany.

“They wanted your blood.”

“You’re really not making a lot of sense,” said Líadan.

“No, probably not.” Hildur tossed the paper onto the low table before climbing into a free chair. The way she settled back gave the appearance of ease, but the tightness around her eyes said otherwise. “The Grey Wardens have a secret prison. It’s in a rift in the Vimmark Mountains, nowhere near any of the passes. It’s sealed at several levels by the life essence and blood of an untainted mage. Anyone can go in, but nothing gets out, which is the intent. You go inside, and you’re never seen again.” Hildur looked directly at Bethany. “Remember how Stroud left you and Anders outside what he said was an abandoned Grey Warden fortress? It was the prison.”

“So they knew they weren’t going to come out?” asked Bethany.

“Mostly. They knew that someone had to check on the seals. If they had been weakened enough, they could have left, and then the process would start to find a new mage to help strengthen them. If they were still strong, they would’ve been trapped, and left to stand guard until they were killed.”

Bethany shook her head slowly, her eyes on her fingers as they fidgeted. “Still doesn’t make it better.”

“Didn’t say it did.” Hildur offered her a slight smile to show her words weren’t meant to be unkind. 

“Why do the Wardens have a prison?” asked Malcolm.

Bethany held up one of her hands to stop him from continuing to talk, and her head snapped around to look at Hildur. “Wait. We haven’t gotten the answer to the specific question of why the Carta wants my blood. You hinted at it, but you haven’t said.”

Hildur sighed, muttered something about Warden secrets and stupidity, and then answered, “The people who want to break the seals need your blood to do so, because the last mage to redo the seals was Malcolm Hawke.”

“My father was a blood mage?”

As Hildur went on to explain the role Bethany’s father had played in helping to seal the Warden prison and the Architect-like creature held there, Líadan gave them only part of her attention. She didn’t particularly need the details about what the Wardens and Malcolm Hawke had done before she’d even been born. It was an explanation Bethany needed, certainly, given that Bethany still had problems with blood magic. Líadan wasn’t bothered, not with having been raised to believe the danger with magic rested mostly with the mage, and not the source of power for the magic. It was one of the many differences between what the Chantry’s Circle of Magi taught, and what Dalish Keepers taught their apprentices. Líadan could only hope that her daughter would learn the less restrictive way, somehow, if what she’d witnessed this morning had been what she assumed.

If it was, they were lucky enough that Dane hadn’t been present and playing with his cousins when the incident occurred. While he’d been around enough mages growing up as to not be terribly bothered by them, he was horrible at keeping secrets. Without a second thought, he’d have ended up telling Alistair and Anora what he’d seen. Not out of spite or malice, but because he liked to talk. It would have quickly brought the problem to light, before Líadan even had a chance to determine if there _was_ a problem. She wondered how long it would take to convince herself that her daughter was fine, and they had nothing to worry about regarding her having the Gift. Either way, once she had a serious talk with each child, she’d have to tell Malcolm. She didn’t look forward to it, and wanted to spare him the worry for as long as she could. He agonized over the potential for magic nearly as much as she did. While he couldn’t truly feel the betrayal to the Dalish that would plague Líadan if the magic were there, he did share her fear of what would happen when it was discovered, because the Chantry would find out. When—not if—they did, they would insist Ava be remanded to their custody. They might even preemptively insist they take Cáel, as well, given his heritage. They’d already tried more than once, when he wasn’t even a year old. If they found out his sister was a mage, they’d try it again.

But none of that would happen so long as Ava didn’t have magic, and so Líadan continued to cling to the slim possibility. She could figure it out over the next couple of days, and then deal with whatever outcome she found.

Movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention—Hildur had given Malcolm a small, leather-bound journal she’d taken from her pocket. Then Líadan realized she hadn’t been paying the least amount of attention, because she had no idea why Hildur would be doing so.

“You’ll all need to leave tomorrow,” said Hildur. 

Líadan stared, taken by surprise that they were being sent on a mission. She’d assumed it had been taken care of with the Carta having been killed, and that Wardens from the Free Marches could handle the issue with the seals at the prison. But Hildur was right. Others Wardens wouldn’t have dealt with the Architect, and it would take too long to send messages to them, even if they had. So it had to be them, and it did everything to ramp up her anxiety over Ava. She wouldn’t have time to sort things out, to protect her if anything had happened. Or if something _did_ happen while she and Malcolm were gone, what decisions would be made without them being present? What if she were dragged off by templars? If something happened in public and templars responded, nothing else could be done. When they returned, they would have to—she didn’t know what she’d do if she found out the Chantry had taken her child, or Creators forbid, both of her children. She had to find a way to ensure their protection to make sure the worst didn’t occur.

Hildur mistook Líadan’s look as an objection. “It’s unfortunate and sudden, I know, especially since you’ll both need to go with Sigrun and Bethany. But, like I said, this ancient magister is much like the Architect, maybe even more powerful. Since it’s Bethany’s family, she’s going. Sigrun’s dealt with the Mother, and you and Malcolm have dealt with the Architect, so I need each of you to go.” She pointed at the journal Malcolm was thumbing through, scratching various notations with a stick of graphite bought during one of their trips to Orzammar. “There’s also a rogue Grey Warden you’ll need to track down and deal with. Her name is Janeka, and she’s apparently gained some sort of respect for Corypheus. I’m not sure why, but most Wardens who’ve been following her case on the order of the First Warden believe that Janeka spent far too much time studying the prison and Corypheus. She’d been commissioned to do so, but probably got drawn into whatever tricked the early Wardens into stupidly keeping Corypheus alive. Last thing we heard was that she was going to investigate inside the prison. A few people heard her mention that she was thinking of freeing him, which was the other thing Stroud was looking into. Given that the Carta who attacked have elements of the taint in them, and that they spoke of breaking the seals, she’s probably directing them. The Wardens want her stopped.”

“Tie her up and carry her out kind of stopped?” asked Malcolm.

“If you think you can accomplish stopping her without bloodshed, feel free to give it a try,” said Hildur. “But I suspect you’ll be out of luck.” She stood from the chair, looking slightly less harried than she’d been when she came into the library. “I’m going to go arrange berths for all of you on a ship leaving port as early tomorrow morning as possible. I’ll send a messenger around once I know the time and the ship. Now, go eat, go pack, make your farewells. You know, the usual. I think there should be food left downstairs, even though we talked through dinner.”

Sigrun scowled. “Nug snugglers. That means the dregs.” She slid a glance over at Malcolm. “How about you arranging something from the palace kitchens, instead? They probably haven’t been wiped out by some forty-odd hungry Wardens.”

He smiled and stood up, tucking the graphite stick into the pouch at his belt, and the journal along with it. “I suppose I could do that. Come on, then, before it’s too late.” 

As they walked from the compound to the palace’s kitchens, Malcolm gave Líadan more than one look of concern. With Bethany and Sigrun trailing behind them, he wouldn’t outright ask her what was going on, but Líadan could tell he’d noticed her lack of attention during the meeting. Usually, it was Malcolm who let his mind wander, and not her, which meant the role reversal would bring questions. She’d have to figure out how to control her reactions better, to keep her thoughts from surfacing near those who could tell she was bothered by something. If he asked, she didn’t want to lie—especially not to him—but she didn’t want him burdened with this, not yet. One of them should have freedom from the worry, for as long as it was feasible. Or at the very least, until there were certain answers to be had.

It wasn’t until they were on their way back to the wing of the palace where their rooms were—along with the children’s, the nurses, the bodyguards, and Alistair and Anora, but Líadan refused to refer to it as the royal family’s wing—did Malcolm ask.

“So, what’s on your mind?”

She sighed, not having come up with a good answer. “Just… give me a few days, then I can talk about it.”

“Not anything urgent, is it? You know, like ancient magisters about to be set free sort of thing?”

“Not urgent, no.” She supposed that it wasn’t urgent enough to make a fuss about not leaving for the mission, not so long as she could plan for any contingencies. Part of her looked forward to the mission. If she hadn’t happened on the scene earlier that day, she would be reasonably happy about it. “Nothing that absolutely has to be discussed before we leave.”

He grinned. “It’ll be like an adventure! Sort of. I mean, darkspawn won’t be fun, and neither will going into the Deep Roads. And Kirkwall isn’t terribly pleasant, either. But I can’t remember the last time we got to do more than a training run in the Deep Roads. Certainly not an extended trip, and definitely not both of us.” A frown threatened his smile, and he scratched at his chin, and then frowned at the dark smudges the graphite had left on his fingers. “I hope Cáel and Ava won’t be too bothered by our both being gone.”

“They’ll have Nuala to watch over them.” _Nuala_. Líadan was fairly certain she could be absolutely trusted. The fact that she hadn’t yet spoken about this afternoon to anyone was a good sign. “She’ll watch over them.”

“I know, but… I don’t know. I feel a little guilty, because I’m looking forward to not having them along. Having actual time to be an adult doing adult Warden things, without having to worry about facing two unruly kids the next day.”

“They aren’t unruly.”

“They are when it’s just after dawn, if only because they tend to be _awake_. No idea where they got that from, because it’s neither of us.”

She laughed, recalling her mother’s consternation at her father for loving the early morning. “My father insisted on getting up just before dawn. He claimed to love the peacefulness.”

“I bet he only claimed that because it meant he wouldn’t hear a certain little girl chattering away.”

“I never chattered.” She bumped into him to help make her point. “That’s you, Alistair, and Dane.”

“Maker’s _breath_ , can that boy talk. You’d think he got it from both sides, but Loghain was as laconic as they come, and Anora isn’t much better, not with folks who aren’t family or friends. At least Callum seems to have mastered the Mac Tir economy of speech. He’s pretty quiet for a four-year-old, compared to Dane at that age. I still say Alistair should’ve been punished with a second son as chatty as the first for what he did with the name. ‘No, I totally didn’t name him after you, except I did, and you hate it and it’s awesome that you do.’” Once he was done imitating his brother, he scowled. “Which reminds me, I should probably tell Alistair that we’re leaving. Aw, I’ll miss the meetings in the morning. Such a loss.” He let go of pretending to be sad and raised his eyebrows at her. “See you later? I’ll help with the packing after I talk to Alistair. Since they’ll be up, I can say goodbye to Cáel and Ava in the morning.”

She nodded. “That’s fine.”

He took a step away, and then stopped to look at her. “You’re sure you don’t want to talk about whatever it is before we go?”

“I’m sure.” Líadan gave him as reassuring a smile as she could, but knew it wasn’t enough. “It can wait.”

His look was dubious, but he didn’t press further. “If you say so.” 

“However…you’ve got marks on your face.” She walked the short distance to him, reached up, and tried to rub away the smudge his fingers had left on his chin. “And they don’t seem to be going anywhere.” Really, she’d only succeeded in making it worse.

“I think it makes me look scholarly.” Then he reached out with his still-smudged thumb and brushed it over the _vallaslin_ on her forehead. “Oh, messed up your tattoo, but I think it suits you.” Before she could even think about retaliating, he kissed her, and then ran off to find his elder brother.

Frustrating as Malcolm could be, she had to admit he was good at making her feel better, even when he didn’t know specifically what was bothering her. Spirits lifted just enough to feel slightly optimistic, she went to search for Nuala.

Líadan found her in the sitting room attached to the nurse’s own room. It often doubled as a playroom of sorts, with Cáel and Ava constantly underfoot, along with Dane and Callum almost as much. Only after the children had gone to bed did Nuala find any peace. Often, Líadan believed Nuala had the harder task when she had charge of the children so much. Killing darkspawn seemed to take far less energy than keeping safe four children who were too energetic and curious for their own good. 

The door had been left unbarred, and she’d only knocked once when Nuala told her to come in. Líadan practically crept inside, still struggling with the matter of trust. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Nuala—she absolutely did, every day, in entrusting her with the lives of her children. But given what they might have witnessed earlier, they were verging on a different sort of trust altogether.

“I was wondering when you’d come to talk,” Nuala said quietly. “The business with the Wardens took a while, didn’t it?”

“It did. There’s—we’re being sent to Kirkwall for a couple weeks.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

Nuala’s brows drew together. “Bit fast, isn’t it? Then again, that’s what usually happens. Whole lot of boring, and then you lot are sent off to save Thedas, I suppose. Then you come back and it’s all dull and boring afterward.” She put down the mending she’d been doing and gave Líadan a steady look. “Not this time, though.”

“No.” Líadan had to resist looking between Nuala and the door, almost panicky at the thought of Nuala’s loyalty not extending as far as she knew, or as far as she hoped. 

Nuala leaned forward, forearms on the tops of her legs, her gaze never wavering. “What if neither of you come back?”

To be fair, it was something Líadan thought about every time she and Malcolm were sent out together on forays in the Deep Roads. While it wasn’t a particularly dangerous or arduous exercise to a group of Grey Wardens, it wasn’t without its danger. Anything could happen in the Deep Roads, including losing most or all of a group. There were plans in the event that the worst happened. Nuala would stay on, as would Kennard, and they’d both go to Highever with the children, where Fergus and his wife would look after them. For Fergus to take them had been the plan for as long as they’d had to make such plans. His wife had been added a couple years before, but she was no less capable and just as trusted.

Things had changed, and the plans no longer suited, not with Ava’s new—maybe it wasn’t that, but the trouble Líadan had with breathing steadily proved her heart believed otherwise. She hadn’t felt this disconcerted since she’d found out she would be having her daughter, and now she didn’t have a Keeper to speak to. She didn’t even have Wynne, who was off on some sort of trip for the Circle. Of course, Nuala was here, but it wasn’t fair to place her in a position where she would have to choose between loyalties. However, there was a chance that Nuala had already chosen, and hadn’t yet told anyone. 

“Your loyalty,” Líadan said, thinking the question ridiculous even as she asked it, yet feeling that it _had_ to be asked, “is it to the children or the Crown?”

“I think you know the answer by now.”

She had a hard time maintaining eye contact with Nuala, partly because she felt awful at questioning her loyalty at all, and partly because she was afraid of the answer. “I think I do, but I need to hear it.”

Nuala let out an exasperated sigh as she half-rolled her eyes. “The children, you daft woman. Of course it’s the children. And you and Malcolm, if there are any other ridiculous doubts rattling around in that head of yours.”

Relief passed through her body with one fear of many having been allayed. She nodded at Nuala, and gave her a wan smile. “Sorry, I just—this is different. More than life and death.”

“I know. What’s more, I understand.”

Líadan nodded. Nuala did, she knew. Her cousin had been an apostate hidden by the family for several years. “I had to be sure. I’m scrambling, trying to figure out what—I just don’t know.” Then she did, every safe harbor rolling to the forefront of her mind. “If we don’t come back, you’ll have to bring them to the Vigil, to Hildur. After that, it’s likely they and you will have to go travel more. They’ll eventually have to go to the Dalish, either Lanaya’s clan or my grandfather’s.” She mulled over how that could even be done. “Possibly the Mahariel if the others can’t be found.”

“Your grandfather would take them in? Even with how he is about the elf-blooded?”

“If anything, his desire not to cross _Asha’belannar_ will compel him to agree. And if I’m gone, he’ll probably also feel compelled to keep my children safe, especially from the Chantry.” She pursed her lips. “Mostly from the Chantry. I’d honestly rather Lanaya, though. Her clan would be more accommodating to them. While Emrys’ clan wouldn’t wish them harm, I’m fairly certain it would be a cold reception and upbringing. Lanaya’s clan would be more like a family.” An ache had settled in her chest, at having to discuss these things, to discuss what would be done for her children if she were permanently gone. They would be out of her hands, beyond her ability to care for them and protect them, and they were so young.

It helped that Nuala could be so matter-of-fact with the details of how things would get done. “How would I get them there? Hildur, I take it?”

“She would have enough resources to help you, and she wouldn’t be bound by Chantry laws like anyone else here. I don’t want to take the chance that anyone will feel obligated—or forced—to send Ava to the Circle.”

There was a pause, and then Nuala asked, “So you believe you saw it?”

She didn’t want to. There was still enough time for denial. “I don’t know. But if I’m not around, and neither is Malcolm, I’m not taking any chances.”

“And if you do come back? What will you do?

“Pray to the Creators that it was a trick of the eye, and nothing more.”

Nuala sat up, looking entirely unconvinced. Líadan didn’t feel convinced, either, but it was all she had. Then Nuala nodded, as if she understood, and glanced in the direction of Ava’s room. “I know you probably don’t want to wake her up, but—”

“I should talk to her,” said Líadan. It was a conversation she’d never wanted to have. “And I’ll speak with Cáel, too.” She wouldn’t leave it to Nuala. While her friend and the children’s nurse was more than capable, it wasn’t her responsibility. It wasn’t her magic Líadan’s child might have inherited.

“If you’re sure.”

A rueful laugh bubbled up Líadan’s throat, and she barely kept it in. “This is the sort of thing where you can never be sure, but it has to be done.” Her mind focused on what she would say, it wasn’t until her hand was on the door latch that she said, “Thank you.”

“It’s a privilege,” said Nuala. “I thank them. Usually. When they aren’t muddy.”

Another burden lifted, Líadan was able to share in a soft laugh. Then she stole to the next door down, where her daughter slept. Except when she went inside, though it was quiet, Ava wasn’t asleep. It was another sign that something was wrong, because Ava almost always slept well. Cáel tended to overthink things at times, and when he was troubled or stymied by a particular puzzle, his mind would keep mulling it over until it was solved, and then he’d sleep. Ava, however, tended to be able to set things aside, get a good night’s sleep, and then tackle her troubles when fresh. Yet here Ava was, acting like her brother, awake when she should have been asleep. Her finger idly twirled in one of the curls of her light auburn hair, something she only did when anxious. Given what had happened, it would’ve been more worrisome if she wasn’t anxious, but it still pained Líadan to see her daughter like this.

Ava stayed seated, leaning against her headboard, quilts piled on her lap, as Líadan approached the bed. When Líadan ran a hand through Ava’s hair, the girl moved over, a clear invitation for her mother to sit. Líadan didn’t decline, and as soon as she was leaning against the headboard herself, Ava leaned against her. 

“I can’t talk about it,” said Ava.

“That’s all right,” said Líadan. “It isn’t something we have the time for right now. Whatever happened, it would take a lot of talking to figure out.”

Ava shifted to look up at Líadan. “How come we don’t have time?”

“Commander Hildur is sending your father and I to Kirkwall tomorrow morning.”

“Does it have to do with the people who tried to hurt Wardens?”

“Very much.”

Ava nodded. “All right.” Then she picked at the edge of her quilt, working free one of the stray threads. “What should… what should I do, while you and Papa are gone?”

Líadan pulled her closer, wishing she could take the quaver out of her daughter’s voice. “I’m not saying there’s been magic done, but _should_ there have been, it should _not_ be done at all while we’re gone, especially not in front of anyone, especially not templars, or even your uncle Alistair. Pretty much everyone, really. I’m not saying you have, or that you can, and you don’t have to tell me right now, but if you _can_ , don’t. It isn’t safe. Whatever’s going on, hold onto it until we get back. Then we can figure everything out.”

Ava leaned more heavily against her, and when she spoke, her words were heavy with sleepiness. “Can we?”

“I think so.”

Another nod, and then Ava was asleep, the quilt sliding from her slack hands, the same as the problem that had briefly stolen her sleep. Líadan slipped out of the bed, put Ava down so that she wasn’t in a weird position, and covered her up with the quilt. Then she kissed her on the forehead, hoping it wouldn’t be the last time, and wished that she could feel the confidence in herself that Ava had in her.

In her other child’s room, Cáel was awake like she’d expected. He’d forgone his bed and opted for the chair next to the window that overlooked the courtyard. When Líadan stepped inside and closed the door, he briefly looked her way, but returned his gaze to the window.

His pointed question wasn’t the one she’d expected. “What’s a Tranquil?”

The intrusion of such a barbaric thing put a sudden lurch in her step as she struggled for an answer that wouldn’t do him a disservice. “What makes you ask?”

“I met one today. He was with one of the new court healers. The healer would only tell me that they’d taken away his magic. But he wasn’t… there was something missing, not just the magic. I know lots of people who don’t have magic, like me or like Papa, and we aren’t like that man was. It’s like he was empty.”

“Because he is.” In something as important, as dire as this, she couldn’t afford to be anything less than honest, even though he’d learned about the Tranquil today, of all days. “When the Chantry takes magic away from a mage, it takes away their ability to feel things, on the inside. They aren’t who they were, and never will be again. If you take away a mage’s magic, everything they are goes with it.”

Cáel had turned to face her as she explained, a mixture of disgust and astonishment in his eyes. “Why would they do that?”

“A lot of reasons, none of them good. Your uncle would be able to explain it better.”

“Do the Dalish do that to any of their mages?”

“No. Never.” It was another reason why Ava would be safe with the Dalish if she had magic. The Dalish would never rip someone’s very being away from them, just for the crime of being a mage. The Gift was never taken. “I didn’t even know it could be done until after I joined the Wardens.”

None of her answers seemed to suit him, and he remained unsettled and returned to gazing out the window. But finding out about Tranquility, no matter what one’s age, was an unsettling thing. Especially when it was on a day when one found out that their only sister might be a mage. “About today—”

Cáel crossed his arms and pulled them tight to his chest, but his defensiveness couldn’t cover his unusual behavior. “I’m not telling.” Not present was the usual note of defiance that accompanied statements like that from him. That told her more than anything he could have said out loud.

“You don’t need to tell me anything right now. What I need you to do is watch over your sister, and not tease her. If what I think happened today did happen, you’ll both need to make sure it doesn’t happen again, at least until your father and I get back.”

“You’re leaving?”

“A mission for the Wardens.”

Her answer finally drew his attention away from the window and the troubles he’d been contending with in his mind. “It has to do with the attack on the compound, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

He took this in, his eyes drifting to look upward as he figured out just how much was being asked of him. Then he looked at Líadan again. “How long will you be gone?” This time, there was a faint tremor in his voice, relaying his fear about them not being there if anything went wrong.

“A couple weeks.” Said out loud to her troubled child, it sounded like forever, and from the brief look of despondence that passed through Cáel’s eyes, it was the same to him. Líadan held on to whatever strength she had inside to resist the urge to stay and deal with everything right then. But if she insisted on staying, there would be questions as to why, and they would be prying questions, and everything would come out before she had a good solution. “If anything happens with your sister, you go to Nuala, and nobody else. I’m serious. Not any of your cousins, not either of your uncles, not either of your aunts, not even any of the Wardens until you’ve told Nuala first. She’ll protect you like your father and I would, and she’s the only person I know that for certain.”

Cáel nodded, more somber than any seven-year-old had a right to be. “All right.” 

“Good. Now, into bed, young man. If you want to brood, you can brood there, and maybe fall asleep. Because if you fall asleep in that chair, you’ll wake up with an awful crick in your neck, and none of the healers will be around to help you.”

He scowled, but stood up and gave her a crooked smile. Then he surprised her by giving her a hug, clinging to her like he only did when he woke from a particularly terrifying nightmare. The moment passed, and with newfound strength, he got into his bed and settled in. She knew he was somewhat back to himself when he half-heartedly tried to swat her hand away from smoothing out his hair, and barely tolerated a kiss to his forehead. There was no dignity in that, he’d once told his parents. He couldn’t help it that he needed them when he was hurt or scared—oddly, he could admit that much—but if he was fine, he didn’t need it.  

Líadan started to leave, and she’d just touched the door when Cáel asked, “Mamae, would they make you Tranquil, even though you don’t really use your magic?”

“No. The Chantry has no power over Grey Wardens.”

“Good. I wouldn’t want to see you like that man was.”

“Neither would I.” When she left, Cáel was already drifting off, but she was unsettled, as if his concerns had been given over to her. 

Her mabari waited for her outside the door. Líadan crouched and held Revas’ head in her hands, giving her ears a good rub. Then she looked directly into the mabari’s caring and understanding eyes. “I’m going to be gone, and so is Malcolm. I need you to stay here and watch over the children.”

Revas growled, her objection clear.

Líadan smiled tiredly at her before becoming serious again. “I’m not saying you didn’t before. I know you guard them and care for them like you would your own pups, and they love you for it. But this is different. Remember how Gunnar died?”

Revas whined.

“I know. I miss him, too. But do you remember the templars who hurt him?”

Revas growled with true menace, nothing similar to the playful growl she’d given earlier.

“Exactly. If templars come for Ava, I need you to keep them away from her, and away from Cáel. Bring them to Nuala, if you can. I trust her.”

Revas gave her a quiet, confident bark. Then she trotted over to Ava’s door and nosed at it. Líadan let her in, sighing as she closed the door. This was a terrible time to be leaving for a mission, but she wasn’t left with much choice. To stay would immediately draw attention to what might have happened, and to not go meant risking an ancient magister going free. But everything in her that wasn’t a Grey Warden wanted to stay to fix things, to convince herself she’d imagined what she’d seen. And though Nuala was a very good person to talk to, she had no direct experience using magic. And she wasn’t Dalish, raised among a people who believed magic a Gift when a child manifested it. 

However, she did have a clanmate left to speak with: Merrill. She was in Kirkwall, and even if she didn’t have any workable advice to offer, she could at least be reassuring. Merrill was very good at that, while Líadan was emphatically not. If anyone could find hope in a situation that appeared to have none, Merrill could. Perhaps the trip to Kirkwall was necessary, after all.


	3. Chapter 3

“The creature can speak. It has a name, Corypheus. We have encountered darkspawn before who use words, but none individual enough to have chosen a name. This Corypheus appears unique among darkspawn, and has gathered many of its brethren to follow it.

It would be wasteful to kill such a creature. If it can be captured, tamed somehow, its unnatural influence over the darkspawn could perhaps be turned to our favor. It is clear the darkspawn will never bow to human commands, but this Corypheus seems at times more human than beast. I have conversed with it, and though its thoughts are disordered and inhuman, it speaks of the Old Gods by their Tevinter names. I have wondered if perhaps he is no darkspawn at all, but a ghoul, so corrupted by the taint as to have become a new creature entirely.

I recommend we find a way to capture Corypheus, hold it somewhere safe from both men and darkspawn, and study its unique nature. This will require magic, however, for Corypheus’s own abilities are powerful. It uses spells both human and tainted, and has a strength that would shame any magister. We must muster our best mages to face it and to hold it.”

— _from Warden-Commander Farele to the First Warden in Weisshaupt, 1004 TE_

**Malcolm**

“Why did we agree to come with you, again?” Malcolm asked Bethany. Because now that they were on a ferry from the Gallows to Lowtown, with sights on Hightown and the Amell estate, he remembered how much Kirkwall bothered him. It made him itch under his skin, uncomfortable and wrong, yet too vague to track down.

“Because Hildur told us to, that’s why,” said Líadan.   

“Oh, right. Orders.” More like orders and then some, Malcolm thought. They’d barely had time to make farewells and assure Cáel and Ava that both their parents would be returning before they’d been ushered onto a ship. It hadn’t helped that there had been some sort of anxiety within his children that wasn’t normally there. He’d attributed it to them never having had both their parents gone for so long, but it still bothered him.

“You know, someone—more than a few someones—did try to kidnap me,” said Bethany. “You could have some sympathy.” It wasn’t like Bethany had let them forget that she’d been attacked, either. She hadn’t been in danger, not really. People who picked fights with Grey Wardens or the Silver Order tended to lose horribly. 

He couldn’t say that, though. Well, he could, but it would make him more of an ass than Carver, and he preferred letting Bethany’s twin brother keep that particular honor. “I do have sympathy, I promise,” he said out loud. “It’s just that it’s crazy at your sister’s place and I just remembered.”

Bethany huffed. “Ava was born here, you know.”

“I realize. Please don’t remind me.” After all, Ava was Fereldan, and it was just a strange happenstance that she’d been misfortunate enough to be born within Kirkwall’s city walls.

But Bethany wasn’t going to let it go, because she never did. “Because my sister and her friends helped you.”

When Malcolm heard Líadan quietly laughing behind her hand, he decided he was going on the offensive before the two of them ganged up on him, as they often had during their short trip. “They’re my friends, too. Well, Anders is. And Merrill. And I think that Varric fellow is everyone’s friend.”

“He is,” said Bethany. “Took him a while to warm up to Sebastian, though.”

“Only the Maker’s grace lets anyone warm up to Sebastian.”

“Merrill thinks he’s nice,” said Líadan.

“Yeah, but she also thinks he’s daft, and coming from Merrill, that’s saying something.”

Líadan landed a solid blow to his side. The brigandine did surprisingly little to protect a person from the sharp elbow of an irritated spouse. As Malcolm made a show of rubbing where he’d been hit, Líadan said, “Merrill isn’t daft.” 

“I don’t know, there have been times I’ve wondered,” said Bethany.

“Keep up like that and I’ll go right back home and not help you at all, Hildur yelling at me when we get back or not. I grew up with Merrill. I assure you, she’s not daft.” Líadan paused and looked to be thinking it over. “A little odd, I’ll admit.”

“Do you think she should come with us?” asked Malcolm. While it was hard to picture Merrill in the Deep Roads, he had to admit that her magic would be great to have in their corner down there.

“Maybe,” said Bethany. “She might not want to go, though. Marian’s last letters have mentioned that Merrill’s been holing up in her place in the Alienage, working on that mirror of hers.”

Líadan growled. “She should have thrown it into the Waking Sea years ago.”

“Which was why I hadn’t mentioned it before now,” said Bethany. “You know, because you get particularly grumpy when it’s brought up. I’m not sure if anyone’s told you, but you can be a bit frightening when cranky.”

The ferry rowed alongside one of Lowtown’s piers, which was a welcome opportunity for Malcolm to change the perilous subject. “Oh, look! We’re here,” he said, purposefully making his tone sound more cheerful than he felt. Without looking back to see if they followed, he headed for the dock. There were a lot of stairs to climb, and the mid-morning sun was already hot in Kirkwall. That, and he really didn’t want Líadan to start in on the eluvian. She’d be too tempted to march down to the Alienage and try to give Merrill what-for again, and that hadn’t gone well the past couple of times she’d done it. 

“I can’t wait to meet these people,” Sigrun said as she hopped onto the dock. “They sound exciting.”

“That’s one word for it,” said Bethany. “Come on. Let’s go see my family so we can tell them of the impending danger they’re in. Not that they aren’t in Kirkwall, which means they’re always in danger.”

Leandra Hawke, Lady Amell, gave the small party a warm welcome. Marian was out, but would be returning at any time, and she would send for Carver. “If the Knight-Commander will let him go,” she said as she and Bodahn hustled the group inside. “She’s been quite restrictive lately about how much the templars are given leave from their duties at the Gallows. We see him so little it’s almost like he’s a mage of the Circle.” Once everyone had settled in and Leandra had sent Bodahn to fetch refreshments, she seated herself in an overstuffed chair before her friendly look turned serious. “I take it you’re here because of the attacks on Marian and Carver?”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. One could easily forget that Leandra Hawke had once been married to an apostate and spent half her life on the run and reading every detail she could from every situation, because anyone could be a threat to the apostates in her family. Leandra hadn’t lost her ability to notice the smallest detail. “Bethany, too,” he said. 

She nodded. “And it has to do with the Wardens and their prison in the Vimmarks, doesn’t it?”

He frowned. “Did Hildur sent you a letter or something? Because she hadn’t let on that you knew anything about it.”

“I certainly didn’t,” said Bethany.

“The task your father did for the Wardens enabled us to leave Kirkwall and settle in Ferelden.” Leandra sat back, but hardly looked relaxed. “Beyond saying where he’d been and who he’d been working for, your father refused to say anything else about it. He—” The clatter of the front door opening and closing, followed by laughter and chatter, cut short Leandra’s explanation. “That must be Marian,” she said as she stood up.

With Marian trotted in her overenthusiastic mabari, Guto, who remembered everyone he’d met before and greeted them with slobbery exuberance. Sebastian trailed slightly behind Marian and Guto, and crowding behind him were Varric and Fenris. “Bethany!” Marian shouted, and then flung her arms outward before wrapping her younger sister up in a hug. Though his smile was honest, Sebastian’s greetings were more reserved, and did not involve the happy hugs that Marian insisted on giving everyone, Sigrun included.

“Sunshine!” said Varric. “Princeling! Princess! Good to see you!”

“Varric, I’m not a princess,” said Líadan. “We’ve talked about this.”

He grinned. “In _my_ story, they made you a princess, Princess.”

Líadan rolled her eyes and looked over at Sebastian. “Could you please set him straight?”

“I gladly would, but it would be an exercise in futility. I would advise you to ignore it the best you can, as I have.” 

“I’ll remember that, Choir Boy,” Varric said to Sebastian, and then turned to the Wardens again. “What brings you to our lovely quagmire of a city?”

“Warden things,” said Malcolm. “They happen to also relate to the attack on Bethany, which Leandra tells me also happened to Marian and Carver.”

Marian shook her head. “The Carta should have known better. It isn’t like they’re really going to be able to get anyone successfully out of the Gallows, especially when they’re very-not-secretly attacking a templar. Then coming for me? Honestly, I’d thought my problems with them were long over. I leave them alone, they leave me alone, and I don’t have to kill any of them. Until a few days ago. Now it’s game on, I say.”

“Good to see you’re a true champion of peace, sister,” said Bethany.

“Peace is boring. Also less bloody, as a rule, but still boring.”

Sebastian sighed. “Andraste help you, Marian.”

She threw a bright smile in his direction. “She does! You say so all the time.” As Sebastian shook his head in resignation, Marian turned her attention to the Wardens in the room. “I take it you’ll want to speak with the others, as well? Because wherever you’re going, I’m coming with you. They attacked me in my home, they attacked my baby brother and sister, and so I’m going to see for myself they will never do so again.”

“That takes care of the asking,” said Líadan. “We’ll need other volunteers to go with us, though. We aren’t going into the Deep Roads, but it’s close enough, and there will still be darkspawn. Any non-Wardens need to be volunteers. Anders, however, won’t get a choice.”

“I’ve already sent for Carver,” said Leandra. 

Marian looked over at Varric. “Varric?”

He grinned. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll have everyone on their way.” Then he hurried out the door, presumably to find some of his many messengers. 

Slowly, the rest of Marian’s friends and family joined them at the estate. Anders was first, given he happened to be the closest due to the route through the estate’s cellars. As soon as he saw the other Wardens, he heaved a huge sigh. “You lot are going to make me go to the Deep Roads again, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Hello, Anders, nice to see you again, too. How are you doing? Is the clinic going well? I’m doing all right, thanks for not bothering to say hello before you started complaining.” Líadan finished off her statement with a glare that was only partly playful. Mostly not, such was her clear irritation with him.

Anders at least had the decency to look somewhat sheepish, but even that didn’t change his attitude. “Are you dragging me to the Deep Roads or not?”

Well, that certainly wasn’t the Anders he’d seen last time he was here, Malcolm thought. “We’d prefer it if you walked. Packs and weapons are enough a pain in the ass as it is,” said Malcolm. “And technically, we aren’t going into the Deep Roads. Well, unless we take a wrong turn.”

“Because you’ve never done that. Remember when we ran into the Architect? Wrong turn.” It sounded much more like the Anders he’d known for years, but as Malcolm hadn’t missed the flash of blue in Anders’ eyes, and judging by Líadan’s suspicious frown, she hadn’t missed it either.

Malcolm sighed. “That was Oghren’s fault. Not mine. We flipped a coin. He won the toss, and that’s why we went left. I think it was left.”

“It was left,” said Líadan. 

“Why the debate and the flipping of coins? I thought Grey Wardens had maps,” Marian said from where she’d flopped into a chair. Then she rolled her eyes as the door slammed and Carver’s grumbling voice could be heard. 

“Only sometimes.” Sigrun shot a questioning look in the direction of the entryway, but went on. “Usually not. Legion’s got plenty of maps, but the Deep Roads change all the time with the darkspawn tunneling, so even those are only moderately helpful. Way’s been cleared from Orzammar to Kal-Sharok, but the darkspawn still hold pretty much the rest of the Deep Roads. No point in serious mapping till they’re gone.”

“One day, we’ll take the Deep Roads.” Carver stomped through the doorway and into the room, jaw jutting out in pride. “Do what the Wardens can’t seem to get done.”

Bethany sighed and glanced between the other Wardens in the room. “One of you want to punch him, or should I?”

“We’re limited to one?” asked Líadan. 

Bethany tilted her head, thinking it over. “For now. We might need his brawn against some Carta or darkspawn.”

“You know,” Marian said, “I think his brawn might be his only good attribute.”

“You should have more charity, Marian.” Sebastian nodded at Carver, and then turned to Marian. “Follow Andraste’s example and find the good in every person.”

“I did. He’s a big lout. Good for deflecting people who want to hit a delicate flower of a mage, but not much else.”

“I love you too, sister,” said Carver.

Again, Sebastian took measure of Carver. “Your brother is quite loyal.”

“Did you forget he’s a templar?” asked Bethany. “I thought the Sword of Mercy on his breastplate was a dead giveaway.”

“You know what? I’m just going to go back to the Gallows if this is how you lot are going to treat me when I visit.” With that, Carver turned on his heel and headed for the front of the estate.

“Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out!” Marian called behind him.

“Marian!” said Leandra. “That’s enough, both of you. Carver, come back in here. This business with the Wardens has to do with all three of you, not just your sisters.”

Malcolm barely resisted smiling at another reminder of Teyrna Eleanor Cousland. Leandra gave as good as she got, just like his own mother had, adeptly wrangling three willful adult children. While Teyrna Eleanor had only dealt with two hot-headed, stubborn children, her approach had been much the same. Personally, Malcolm had enough trouble managing his two small ones. He had no idea what he’d do when they were older. They were difficult enough as it was.

“With brothers,” said Varric as he walked back into the room, “the best you can hope for are those few times when they aren’t insufferable. As for our friends, what you see is what you get. Aveline’s busy rounding up a couple of her guards who partook of a little too much wine at the Rose, Rivaini’s on a run of hers to Rialto, and Daisy is still shut in at her place, probably staring into that sorry excuse for a mirror of hers. Maker, we’re lucky if we can get her to eat lately.” He turned to Líadan, a slightly hopeful glint in his eyes. “Think you could get her to come around? You’ve known her the longest.”

“Probably not. She’s more stubborn than I am.” Líadan seemed slightly perturbed, and even more hurt that Merrill hadn’t bothered with coming up for a visit. It wasn’t often she had the chance to come to Kirkwall, Malcolm knew, and every other time, the two Dalish had made it a point to see each other.

“And your obdurate nature is part of legend, Princess, so maybe we’ll just have to keep slipping Daisy some food to see that she eats and call it a day.” Varric sat in the empty seat Marian motioned to. “So what have the Hawkes to do with Warden adventuring? I mean, aside from their predilection for descending into the Deep Roads more than disgraced nobles.”

“Their father.” Leandra had become uncharacteristically subdued, her voice tinged with sadness. “Thirty years ago, he was approached by the Grey Wardens for a task they promised would pay well. They also offered him leverage with my father, so that I could leave Kirkwall with Malcolm uncontested. All they needed, they said, was a strong mage who was untainted with Warden training to reinforce a few magical seals in a Warden prison. Once he was done, they promised never to bother him again. He agreed. He was gone for nearly a week, and when he returned, all he said was that in addition to the ancient rune they’d given him to use to strengthen the seals, he’d had to use his blood. He was angry about it—angrier than I’d ever seen him at that point in our lives—and never said one way or another if he meant blood magic or something else. I never asked. The Wardens told him to keep the rune, calling it a key, and said it had to stay out of Warden hands, for safekeeping. We never heard from the Wardens again.”

“What’s it to do with us?” asked Carver. “We’re not Father, obviously.”

“Even the best magic fades, brother. The magic currently holding the seals together is laced with our blood. It’s part of how the seals are strengthened.” Bethany, to her credit, did not so much as glare at her brother.

“They need our blood? They can get stuffed if they want my blood to do their dirty blood magic.”

“You can get stuffed and let them finish their explanation before you storm off to sulk,” said Marian.

Varric ignored the bickering as he focused on the details of the job. “How would that even work? The whole mechanism is clear as mud.”

“It wouldn’t,” said Malcolm. He still barely understood it, and believed it a flimsy method that really shouldn’t have worked for as long as it had. “I know because I asked Hildur the same question. It isn’t like you can guarantee that whatever mage you coerced into strengthening the seals would have children who could re-do the seal. Turns out that if you want to strengthen them, you need the rune, and the mage who uses it also incorporates their blood into whatever ritual they use. If you want to break the seals, that’s when you need the blood of the mage who sealed it, or the blood of his kin. Someone wants to free what’s in there, and that’s why they attacked the Hawkes.”

“I will ask what no one else has the courage to,” said Fenris. “What is contained in this prison?”

“A darkspawn who’s around a thousand years old,” said Malcolm. “The Wardens think he’s an ancient Tevinter magister, twisted into an abomination on a level we’ve never seen ourselves. Possibly— _possibly_ , because the Wardens won’t say one way or another—one of the magisters who tainted the Golden City.”

“It should have been destroyed. Allowing it to survive all this time was folly.”

Varric grinned at the declaration. “Never change, Broody.” Then he turned to Malcolm. “I still need help understanding. So the Grey Wardens of old believed this thing they imprisoned needed an absurd amount of security to keep it locked up. Why are we breaking those seals? Shouldn’t we be trying to fix them? You know, to keep it locked up?”

Líadan let out a huff. “Because there’s a stupid Warden leading a party of other stupid Wardens who think they can control the very not-stupid darkspawn kept there.”

“Oh!” Marian leaned forward in earnestness. “Oh! Oh, wait. Let me guess. You disapprove, don’t you? I couldn’t tell from your tone.”

“I think the lack of Daisy’s presence during one of her few visits to Kirkwall has made her cranky,” said Varric. “Stupid Wardens might be a close second.”

Malcolm sighed, already tired of that particular part of the mission. Hunting darkspawn was what Wardens were for, not for hunting down other Wardens. None of them had any believable illusions that they wouldn’t have to kill them. He wanted to believe they wouldn’t, and would keep insisting up until they had no choice. “We have to break the seals to catch up to the other Wardens quick enough.”

“So you can kill them?”

“Yes,” said Líadan.

At the same time, Malcolm said, “We might not have to—”

“No, you’ll probably have to,” said Marian. “Wardens are a special kind of intractable. Works well against darkspawn, not so well when dealing with other folk.” She looked over at her mother. “Do you know where the rune is? Gathering dust in a box somewhere? Added to a stave he never used again? We’re really screwed if it got left in Lothering.”

As if the weight of her memories held her down, Leandra stood up slowly. “I believe I do. There was a stave your father had used quite often before his trip. He even took it with him. Afterward, he put it away and never used it again, even though it was his favorite.”

Marian stared Leandra. “Are you talking about the one you insisted on bringing when we fled? The one I didn’t like because it has a naked woman carved on the top?”

“Wait, really?” asked Malcolm.

“No word of a lie,” said Marian. “Naked as the day the Maker made her, whoever she is.”

“I never wanted to know,” said Carver.

Bethany winced. “Please don’t tell me it’s Mother.”

“For the Maker’s sake, you three, it’s Andraste, the Maker’s bride. Your father was quite good at wood carving.”

“So, Carver was named after his dad’s favorite hobby?” asked Sigrun.

Even though they’d barely met, Carver shot her a dark look, to which Sigrun only smirked. Served him right for making those comments about Grey Wardens, Malcolm thought, and figured Sigrun believed the same. 

Leandra fetched the stave, which really did have a remarkably well done sculpture of a woman on the top. Malcolm took the journal Hildur had given him, and compared the rune in the stave to the sketch in the book. It was a match. He wasn’t sure whether to be happy or sad about it, and when he told the others, they seemed to feel the same. 

Except for Marian.

She was already up and bouncing on her feet. “When do we leave? We could go now. It isn’t even suppertime yet. We could be halfway there by nightfall. Or at least partway. Closer than we are now.”

“You haven’t even asked how we’re supposed to get there,” said Varric.

Marian turned an expectant look on the Wardens. “Well?”

“Not the Deep Roads, as we’ve said,” said Líadan. “Hildur told us about a route that cuts through the Vimmark Mountains instead of going underground. Because of increasing numbers of darkspawn in the years since the Blight, it’s quicker to travel on the surface. We think it should take two or three days to get there, depending on if we run into anyone on the way.”

“Plan on it,” said Varric. “I don’t think Hawke is capable of going anywhere without running across resistance. I can be ready by sunrise.”

“As can I,” said Fenris. 

The others said much the same, and then quickly returned to their homes to rest and prepare. Though Malcolm, Líadan, and Sigrun had planned on taking rooms at an inn, both Marian and Leandra asked that they stay at the estate, which still had more rooms than it did occupants, and neither of them liked seeing them go unused. Leandra also insisted on feeding anyone who would stay for dinner. 

“All right, but I’m bringing them for drinks and Diamondback at the Hanged Man afterward,” said Varric. 

Marian raised an eyebrow at him. “I thought you had things to do.”

“I do. But I’m not going to turn down a free meal, or the chance to divest another prince of his coin.” When Malcolm scowled, Varric added, “I’ll even let you and Princess play as a team.”

“If you want me to play Diamondback, you’d better not pair me with him,” said Líadan. “I don’t like losing, and he’ll lose.”

“Way to point out my shortcomings to potential adversaries,” said Malcolm.

“Princeling, I had you pegged before you even knew I was going to suggest Diamondback.” Varric inclined his head toward Sigrun. “You, however, don’t seem to be an easy mark.”

She smiled. “I tend to be the one doing the marking.”

In the end, Malcolm did lose, though Líadan managed to win back most of the coin he’d surrendered. Fenris had proven surprisingly good at the game, and even more surprisingly, pleasant company. Malcolm still wasn’t keen on the smell of the Hanged Man, nor the quality of the ale, but the atmosphere was comfortable to him. He couldn’t be entirely relaxed, not with a tavern full of questionable figures, drunk longshoremen, and possessing the constant potential of breaking out in a bar-wide fight at any moment. The abundance of Fereldan accents did help. While Marchers didn’t speak like Orlesians, they didn’t speak like people from home, either. Between the dirt, the chance of a fight, and the dry, cutting remarks flying between card players, Malcolm felt remarkably content. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d attempted to play cards, and then ended up waiting as Líadan wiped the floor with their opponents after he’d been dealt out.

At the palace, there was always one thing or another that kept them from spending this sort of time together. Even when they did manage to scrape together time enough to go out like this, the next morning loomed over them, and with said morning came two completely energized children who had no forgiveness for an adult who might have had a little too much ale the night before. When it came to going out, drinking, and playing cards like other adults of their age, or staying in and sleeping, sleep often won out.

Especially if there was to be a meeting with advisers in the morning. _Especially_ when Alistair was there, because he had even less mercy for hangovers than Cáel and Ava. Alistair had never had a hangover, not once, and Malcolm felt it a cosmic injustice. Coupled with Alistair waking early and liking it so much that he was cheerful, Malcolm made an effort to not even contemplate drinking with Oghren the night before, lest he be driven to commit fratricide the next morning. The royal guards were well aware, and generally gave him the side-eye as he walked into early morning meetings. He couldn’t blame them.

“Oh, his eyes do get shiny when he’s buzzed,” he heard Varric say.

“I told you,” said Líadan. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say he loses on purpose so he can just relax and drink a bit, but I’ve seen him play in earnest. Same result.”

“At least he’s a happy drunk. Not tearful, overly touchy, or keen for a fight.”

“Not drunk,” said Malcolm. “Really. Relaxed and comfortable, yes, but not drunk. I can walk, think mostly clearly, and probably still defend myself if there’s a fight on the way back to Hightown.”

“Considering most Grey Wardens could destroy common thugs in their sleep, I’m not sure how much a measure of sobriety that last part is.” Varric’s eyes flicked over to Fenris, and then back to Malcolm and Líadan. “You should probably go with someone to Hightown, though. Not because I think you’ll get into any trouble, but because you’d get lost otherwise. Kirkwall isn’t exactly intuitive when it comes to getting around.”

Fenris nodded. “I must go to Hightown, as well. I will go with you.” He half-smiled at Varric as he stood. “And my debt to you is down by three sovereigns. I told you I was good for it.”

“Still have another two to go, Broody. Besides, who knows when you’ll have another change at fleecing a prince?”

“You’re horrible,” said Malcolm.

What none of them missed was the look passed between Fenris and Sigrun. Malcolm had thought he’d heard the two of them discussing Isabela. It seemed Fenris had some sort of arrangement with Isabela, and since Sigrun had the same sort of arrangement, they were of the same mind. At least that was what Malcolm seemed to divine from what they’d openly chatted about.

“Rivaini will be jealous,” said Varric.

“Only that she missed out on joining in,” said Fenris.

Varric grinned. “She might be here when we get back.”

“Then we’ll have to arrange to stay another night,” Sigrun said to Malcolm.

He groaned. “Yes, because that’s _exactly_ the sort of thing we’re here for, and Hildur won’t question at all why we stayed any extra time.”

“Only for gossip. Oh, and to make you squirm.” Sigrun grinned at him, and then headed for the door.

Lowtown at night, the same as the daytime, was filled with a suspicious haze mixed with the fog rolling off the harbor. Through air laced with smoke from the smelters, Malcolm thought he could smell the sea. That’s what he told himself it was. The hazy fog diminished as they went up the steps to Hightown, leaving a hot, clear night in the upper reaches of the city—certainly not the rainy summer they’d left behind in Ferelden. When they were done with the stairs and on level ground, Malcolm slung his arm around Líadan’s shoulders and pulled her close as they walked. Fenris bid them farewell at the Amell estate’s doorstep before he headed for his own place, Sigrun following him without a word to the others. 

Malcolm watched them go. “Isabela really will be sad that she couldn’t join in.”

“She’ll make up for it when everyone gets back. We’ll probably hear it from here.”

“Maybe I’m more tipsy than I thought. I should have seen that one coming.” He grimaced. “Or not seen or even imagine, because—”

Líadan faced him, smiled, reached up, and cupped his cheeks in her very warm hands. “How about you imagine other things?”

“Oh, I could do that.” He did. And then he wasn’t imagining once they got to their room, and morning arrived far too soon.

Orana had already set breakfast out by the time they were dressed, packed, and stumbling down the stairs—all right, he was doing the stumbling, Malcolm admitted, while Líadan still moved with a hunter’s grace, even while half-asleep. Marian and Bethany were already eating, and to Malcolm’s surprise, Sebastian was already there, too. Maker, what time had _he_ gotten up? Had it been anyone else, he’d have assumed the person in question had spent the night, but this was Sebastian, the same man who insisted on living like a Chantry brother even though he’d been released from his vows. Since he was Chantry, it must’ve been that he shared the same happy habit of rising early, like Alistair, the former templar.

Sodding Chantry. No person ever should be this happy this early. The Maker-damned sun wasn’t even up yet.

Marian’s glares at Sebastian’s cheerful chatter communicated that she felt the same as Malcolm. Meanwhile, he was happy to have another ally in the fight against rising early.

The meal was eaten quickly, the others arriving in ones and twos: Fenris and Sigrun first, both of them looking insufferably pleased, to which Marian rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath about Isabela’s influence; then Anders, stone-faced and not sharing even a hint of a smile with Sigrun, though he’d always done so years ago, with the Fereldan Wardens; Varric, who melted the iciness of grumpy not-morning people with his stories; last was Carver, who brought an altogether different sort of grumpy with him. But that was Carver, Bethany insisted. He’d never change.

“We could lose him in the Planasene,” Marian said a little too brightly for the time of day. “Mother might mind, but I think everyone else would be all right with it.”

“Andraste implored us to love our sisters and brothers,” Sebastian said without even looking up from his food.

“I know! I’ll love him more when he’s lost in the woods and no longer my problem.”

Malcolm was beginning to see that it was almost a game between Sebastian and Marian. He’d lament over or comment on her behavior, and she took it as encouragement, twisted it, and flung it right back at him. And so Sebastian kept commenting in an attempt to rise to the challenge Marian presented. The undertone of caring, possibly love, was certainly there, and absent was actual scolding. Which was good, Malcolm thought, because he had a feeling that Marian would take exception to that, as would her family.

“Oh, stuff your problems,” Carver said to Marian, already tromping for the door. “I’ll be outside waiting. If no one comes out after five minutes, I’m going back to the Gallows.”

“Ten,” Varric called after him. “Need to grab our gear, and some of us have short legs.”

“Not a minute more!” Then the door slammed.

Leandra sighed. As the others grabbed packs and weapons, she waited in the entryway. “Do be careful,” she said as they left, one by one. “And please don’t lose your brother, or yourselves, either accidentally or on purpose.”

“Fine,” said Marian, “but this makes me your favorite child, being as benevolent as I am with not throwing him to the darkspawn, or the Carta, or the scary trees.”

“Maker guide your steps, all of you.” Leandra closed the door to the estate, and the group headed for Lowtown, the sun rising from behind the horizon to watch their progress.


	4. Chapter 4

“I was wrong. We cannot control the creature Corypheus. Even our most powerful mages hold no influence with him. In truth, it is they who have been most vulnerable.

A dozen times, those assigned to guard or study the creature have sought the key to free him. When they are removed to a safe distance, they remember little. They speak of a voice in their minds, a calling like that of the Old Gods, but it wanes outside Corypheus’s presence.

Darkspawn have attacked as well, seeking him. I can only assume they are summoned the same way. Somehow, his magic lets him speak through the blight itself, affecting any who bear its taint.

This same power stays the hand of any Warden who approaches to kill him. I must recommend that we seal this prison over and conceal its very existence. Corypheus must not be allowed to go free.”

— _from Warden-Commander Daneken to the First Warden in Weisshaupt, 1014 TE_

**Líadan**

Their group started for the Vimmarks as the sun tinged the horizon pink. Horses weren’t brought, because they wouldn’t have a safe place to keep them once they got to the prison, which meant they were on foot for the entire trip. Líadan and Sebastian traded off scouting ahead in the area immediately outside Kirkwall, where they were most likely to encounter bandits. None were found, or the bandits who were around were smart enough to leave Wardens alone. By and large, most of Thedas knew that attempting to rob a Grey Warden—especially a group with significant numbers of them—tended to result in a grisly death.

Líadan emerged from the tree line that hugged close to the trail through the Planasene. At the questioning looks from the others, she shook her head. “Nothing but game,” she said.  “We should be fine without scouting, I think. I didn’t see signs of anyone passing through recently.”

“It would be wise to scout again before we set camp for the night,” said Sebastian.

“Of course it would.” Líadan paused, wanting to say more, but managed to hold it in as she fell into step next to Malcolm. “I’ll set a false trail or two if he pulls that again,” she whispered to him. “Trying to tell a Dalish hunter how and when to scout! Let _him_ go on a wild sylvan chase and return with nothing but dirt on his boots to show for it.”

Fenris chuckled from behind them, his elven ears letting only him overhear.

“How old are you again?” Malcolm whispered back to her.

“Not so old that I’ll let the likes of him get away with insinuating that I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Stamp your foot when you say that and you’ll be just like Ava.”

For that, she elbowed him in the ribs. It only made him laugh and draw her closer as they walked. She didn’t mind. The ability to use her hunting skills in a forest as ancient and deep as the Planasene put her in a better mood than she would have guessed. She hadn’t been able to truly do this for years, and she hadn’t quite understood how much she missed it until she was able to do it again. Creators, she needed to get out into the forest more often.

While she did miss her children, and she knew Malcolm did, too, there was a certain freedom in not being immediately responsible for them for the next week, at the very least. It was a momentary reprieve from the drudgery of daily duties. While the impending battles with the Carta and darkspawn were certainly a downside, they hadn’t yet overrode the feeling of freedom. Though, that freedom never escaped the tinge of worry, considering the situation waiting at home. 

Malcolm, apparently also enjoying the countryside, took in a deep breath of air, which earned him a sneezing fit from the dust the others ahead of them had kicked up.

“You know,” Anders said once Malcolm’s sneezing had stopped, “I’m surprised the Warden Commander assigned both of you to go on a mission together. Where are your children?” 

Líadan frowned at Anders’ back as Malcolm did the same from beside her. It hadn’t been an innocent inquiry, not with the judgmental tone behind it—far different from the tone Sebastian took when he spoke words that would normally sound judgmental, but rarely were. It was odd that Anders had become more insufferable and stuffy than a man of the Chantry. And to imagine, Anders used to be lighthearted and possess an actual sense of humor.

“At the palace with their nurse, also their bodyguard and my mabari, not to mention the Royal Guard and the City Guard,” said Líadan. “They’re fine. Hildur had to send us both because of the peculiar circumstances of the mission.” For the time being, she ignored Anders’ unspoken condemnation, and smiled instead. “I miss them, but this has been kind of fun. I know they’re well cared for and protected, and I get to do things I haven’t been able to do since before we had them.” Maybe if she said it out loud enough, she’d be able to set aside the worry. It had yet to work.

“You haven’t done much Wardening?” asked Varric.

She shrugged. “Some. Missions here and there, training newer Wardens, brief trips into the Deep Roads to keep sharp. But nothing this involved, not since before Ava was born.”

Varric had slowed in order to walk beside them. “Same thing for you, Princeling? I’ve noticed you seem to be in great spirits as we trudge through the woods. Meanwhile, it makes this city boy wish for home.”

Malcolm grumbled. “Sort of.”

“Sort of?” asked Marian, who sounded far too amused for it to be an innocent question. “What’ve you been doing?”

“They’ve been making me do prince things.”

“Prince things?”

“Helping my brother out, sitting in on meetings, occasionally being asked for input, learning everything Alistair knows. ‘Just in case,’ Anora told me, and Alistair agreed. Why? Because my brother is a jerk, that’s why. He named _me_ as Dane’s co-regent with Anora if anything happens to him.”

“That would be standard for any monarchy,” said Sebastian. “I’m not sure why you are surprised by it.”

Líadan glanced back and saw Sebastian’s brow furrowed, as if he were truly confused about why Malcolm complained. It didn’t help her perception of him, since this prince had insinuated that she didn’t entirely know what she was doing in the forest. If he couldn’t see why Malcolm would be unhappy with the duties he’d had in Denerim, then Sebastian had been too long in the nobility, and not enough time spent outside the court, such as scouting in a forest.

While she hadn’t been in too many forests lately, not of the Planasene’s size, she had at least done scouting in the Deep Roads. Visits to Cadash thaig had been nice, as had been seeing Shale.

“Not surprised,” Malcolm said with resigned sigh. “Displeased. I don’t want the throne anymore than Alistair did. While I technically wouldn’t _be_ on the throne, I’d be doing everything but. Hence doing prince things when I’d rather be doing Warden things.”

Varric gave him a nod. “Spoken like a true younger brother. Better killing Thedas’ unsavory than it is running the company or country your elder sibling has to.”

“Exactly. Glad you see my point, Varric. Now, if you could convince Alistair’s advisors of the same, I could be left in peace.”

“My tongue can work miracles, Princeling, but that is beyond my ability.”

“Maker!” said Carver. “Did you have to put it that way?”

“Junior, that was the least offensive way I had of phrasing it. Want to hear the other versions?”

“No!” Then Carver actually covered his ears and hummed to himself.

“And you implied that _I_ was behaving like a child,” Líadan said to Malcolm.

“Changed my mind. In comparison, you’re the picture of adulthood.”

Once the day started to close in on evening, they all had to venture into the forest to find a suitable place to set up camp for the night. Being near a source of water was ideal, as was being out of sight of the main trail. Líadan decided that she’d hunt right after they picked a site, because fresh meat was far preferable to dried, and they may as well conserve dry rations for when they needed them. Since it would be near dusk by the time they’d gotten camp settled, it didn’t make sense to let the chance for game pass by. There were signs of both deer and hares, but she preferred taking a decent number of hares over a deer for a night’s camp. It helped that Planasene hares tended to run on the large side, a fact she’d learned from other Dalish hunters. 

When she announced her plans to the group after they’d taken off their packs, Sebastian spoke up in favor of them. “I would like to accompany you on your hunt. It isn’t something one gets to do in Kirkwall, and I rather enjoyed it in Starkhaven.”

She stared at him. There was a certain amount of civility that needed to be maintained while their group traveled together and fought at each other’s sides for an extended period of time. Therefore, she couldn’t say what first popped into her head. Nor could she say the second or third or probably the fourth.

Marian said it for her. “Do you really think that if you go with a Dalish hunter on an actual hunt that you won’t be in the way?”

Due respect to him, Sebastian took Marian’s criticism seriously. He fell silent and rubbed at his chin while he glanced out into the trees. Then when he chose to speak, it was to Líadan. “Could I be of any use to you on a hunt? Or is Marian right?”

It was Líadan’s turn to contemplate the forest. Rarely did Dalish hunters go out on their own. Pairs were normal, but parties of up to four hunters worked well. If they were hunting for hares, half could flush them out while the other half took their shots. Sometimes, they brought deerhounds for flushing out birds or hares, but hunting partners worked just as well. As long as Sebastian could move silently in the forest and remain still when told, she could use him like she would a new apprentice. Plus, it would be quicker if someone did the flushing and the other did the shooting. She finally turned to look at Sebastian. “I suppose I could find something for you to do. But the first time you make a sound, I’m sending you back.”

He grinned, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Thank you. Let me get my bow and string it and I will be yours to guide.”

To Líadan’s surprise, Sebastian didn’t start any mindless chatter as they hunted. He kept quiet and held still when she signaled for him to. The only time he spoke was to ask what they were targeting. 

“A deer would be too large, I gather?” he asked as they started out.

“Most. There are roe deer in the Planasene, so one of those would be all right. Hares would be quicker, though, and less prone to waste.”

“I agree. I take it I will be chasing them from the underbrush, as we don’t have any hunting dogs with us?”

“Hope it isn’t work below a prince, because you’re doing exactly that, which is a hunting apprentice’s job.”

“I think any human would be the equivalent of an apprentice when compared to a Dalish hunter. Marian was not wrong in her assessment.”

Líadan was starting to see how Sebastian could have been the charming rake his sister insisted he’d been before he’d entered the Chantry. Creators, he was still charming now, having said exactly the thing that would placate her annoyance at him asking to come along. She didn’t reply out loud. Instead, she gave him a slight smile, shook her head, and kept walking. Sebastian did exactly as he was told, and in the end, they returned carrying four braces of hares. They would have settled for less, but with the number of Grey Wardens in the party, it seemed wise to take extra when the opportunity arose. Sebastian had even impressed Líadan when he’d started to field dress the hares once they’d decided they had enough. More impressive was that he did the job well.

Their triumphant return to camp was greeted with cheers—if subdued in order to not draw attention to their presence. As they all ate their fill of the roasted meat, plus cheese, apples, and bread brought from Kirkwall, Líadan glanced around the camp that’d been set up in her absence. They were short a tent, and her first thought went to Sigrun. Maybe she and Fenris had elected to share for the time being, but Sigrun tended to focus on the job when they were on a mission. That meant no tent sharing for her. Líadan frowned. Maybe someone had forgotten theirs.

“What?” Malcolm asked from next to her. “You’ve got that furrow you get between your eyes when you’re trying to figure out a puzzle.”

“There aren’t enough tents.”

He blinked. “I hadn’t even thought to count.”

Varric chuckled. “There are exactly as many tents as needed.”

“Who’s sleeping under the stars, then?” asked Sigrun. “Because I’m not. I have enough trouble with the sky during the daytime. I need a reasonable roof over my head if I’m going to sleep.”

“There’s something Hawke and Choir Boy aren’t telling you,” said Varric.

Carver rolled his eyes. “If they went through that chaste marriage bullshit, I’m not interested.”

“Well, I am,” said Bethany, who then threw a curious look in Marian’s direction. “Sister? Care to explain?”

Marian gave a heavy sigh, which Líadan took to mean that it _was_ the chaste marriage that she’d spoken of ages ago, and not a fully shared one. Though, if they were sharing a tent—and that also explained how Sebastian had already been at the Amell estate when they’d woken up—and a bed, it was a testament of will that their marriage remained chaste. There was temptation, and there was _temptation_ , and sharing a bed would pretty much be the tipping point for her. It often was. Marian’s will had to be extraordinary, since Líadan knew that the chaste part was largely Sebastian’s choice, much to Marian’s lament.

“We decided it was prudent,” said Marian. She managed to make prudent sound like a swear, like Oghren did to duty.

“Once I had made my decision to fully leave the Chantry—with Grand Cleric Elthina’s blessing—I needed a place to live. Marian offered her estate, but if I were to be taken seriously by the citizens of Starkhaven, I needed to not in the least resemble the young man I had once been. It meant not living with Marian while not married in the eyes of the Maker and Andraste. So, we had a small ceremony with the Grand Cleric for our chaste marriage, and will have a larger ceremony once we retake Starkhaven.”

“Sister! That’s wonderful!” Bethany gave a little shout, bolted from her seat on the ground, and practically tackled her sister with a joyful hug. 

Meanwhile, Carver groaned and glared at Sebastian.

Marian smiled, but while it was mostly enthusiastic, it was missing some of its usual cheer. “We’re going to Starkhaven after we’ve sorted out this kidnapping problem.” She put her arm around Bethany, who’d remained at her sister’s side. “Not a long visit. Just long enough to figure out the nuances and logistics of changing the rule.”

“Seems a remarkably easy plan you have for taking back a principality that has a seated ruler, even if the ruler is a pretender,” said Malcolm. “I recall regaining the throne for Alistair required a lot of fighting.”

“Wasn’t it mostly done through the Landsmeet?” asked Bethany.

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “Where do you think most of the fighting was?”

“So you mean you fought with words, and not real fighting,” said Carver.

Varric outright laughed. “Junior, when it comes to the Fereldan Landsmeet, even I know that sword or fistfights or both are the usual. It’s only a remarkable Landsmeet if there isn’t. He’s talking about actual fighting.”

“With Andraste’s guidance, we should not face the same in Starkhaven,” said Sebastian. “Goran has already written me to ask how he could hand the rule over to Meghan or myself.”

“And you don’t think it’s a trap?” asked Malcolm. “Because that says trap. Written all over it. I mean, I know you’re idealistic, Sebastian, but Marian tends toward practical, because it keeps you from being dead.”

“I had my people check it out after the offer. It’s apparently genuine,” said Varric. When Malcolm didn’t look convinced, Varric held up his hands. “I know, I was as surprised as you, Princeling.”

Marian stretched her legs toward the camp fire, presumably to warm her toes. “I’m trying to get Mother to agree to moving. Hopefully she’ll join us in Starkhaven once everything is settled. Kirkwall is a mess and will only get messier, and I don’t particularly want to stick around for it to fall down around my ears. The Qunari were enough of that for me, thank you. But every time I ask Mother, she goes into the whole, ‘I’m an Amell, of the Kirkwall Amells, and I won’t leave Kirkwall again,’ routine.” Marian pantomimed her mother, even imitating her voice as she retold what Leandra had said. “For what reasons, I don’t know. I mean, she left the city for Father. Carver, you could get a transfer.” She frowned. “Maybe.”

“Don’t get your hopes up about that.” Carver said nothing further as his scowled deepened.

“All right, probably not.” Marian sighed.

“Why couldn’t you?” Bethany asked Carver. “Templars are transferred all the time.”

Carver lifted his head from its contemplation of the dead leaves underfoot to meet his twin sister’s gaze. “Knight-Commander Meredith is… I don’t know. She’s been strict, even for her, which is saying something. Knight-Captain Cullen does what he can to mitigate the worst of it, but since she’s treading right on the line for legal interpretation of Chantry law, his hands are tied. I can’t tell you how many mages he’s just barely saved from being made immorally—maybe even illegally—Tranquil. It’s only supposed to be for unharrowed mages or actual, uncontrollable threats, not really anyone else. But the Knight-Commander wields it like a parent would a switch. There have been some no one’s been able to stop, but she’s silenced the uproar with outlining how those people were threats, yet didn’t deserve death.”

“Tranquility is worse than death,” said Marian.

“I know!” Carver’s reply was sharp enough to approach shouting. “I know,” he said in a more normal tone of voice. “I keep thinking about leaving, but I’m trying to do what I can from the inside. The Knight-Captain has been doing the same thing, and we’re trying to work together. But it isn’t like anything I thought it would be, and not even like anything it was after I first joined. And, Maker, the tension between the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter Orsino.”

“Oh?” asked Varric.

Carver shot him a look of distaste. “Not like one of your serials. I’m surprised that she hasn’t gutted him, or he hasn’t lit her on fire yet. If things keep going like they are, it’ll happen. So, I wish I could leave my post in Kirkwall, but I don’t think I’ll be allowed.”

“I, for one,” said Marian, “will be happy to get out of Kirkwall. I just wish Mother would do the same.”

“She will be in good company,” said Sebastian. “Grand Cleric Elthina is also refusing to leave. After death threats were directed her way, she mentioned she was offered safe haven by the Divine, but she turned it down.”

Líadan frowned. “Grand Clerics leave their posts often? My impression was that they lived as long as possible and then some, all while clinging to their offices while others don’t bother to strip it away. Well, if your Divines are anything to go by.”

“You know, I do believe you have some latent bitterness directed toward the Chantry.” Marian held up her hand and illustrated with a tiny gap between her thumb and forefinger. “Just a little.”

She mostly tolerated its presence, so long as it didn’t interfere with her life. It was enough. “It’s less than it was.”

“What, you mean like someone took a tiny bucket out of your whole sea of bitterness?” asked Malcolm.

For that, Líadan shoved him off the dead log, sending him onto his back behind it, where he just laughed to himself.

“How are you even still alive, much less married to the same woman?” asked Marian. 

Instead of getting up, Malcolm remained on his back while resting his feet on the log he’d previously been sitting on. “Charisma.”

“Líadan, you must have the patience of Andraste,” said Sebastian.

“Am I the only one who sees something wrong with that comparison?” asked Varric.

Malcolm rose, dusted himself off, and cautiously retook his seat. “Which one of the Creators has the most patience, do you think?”

Honestly, had it not been asked in this particular context, Líadan had to admit it was a good question. “I don’t know. I can tell you which ones don’t have it. Mythal, for instance. Or Elgar’nan. Or Fen’Harel. June, possibly, since crafting can take patience and diligence. Oh, you know what? Has to be Sylaise. She’s the one who insists everyone keep the peace amongst themselves, even when asses like you decide to tease their bondmate.”

The smile Malcolm directed at her when he briefly traced her _vallaslin_ was one reason why she remained with him—she wasn’t sure she could silence what she felt when she saw what lived behind that smile. “Wouldn’t Andruil be the patient one? Hunters have to be patient when stalking their prey. You’ve said so more than once. So there you go. That’s how you keep resisting the urge to kill me, because you’re devoted to Andruil.”

And that was another reason why she stayed with him—aside from the fact that she loved him—because he did his best to understand her culture and where she’d come from. For as much work as she did to understand humans, he did an equal amount trying to understand the Dalish. Sometimes, like he just had, he demonstrated the understanding he’d gained. However, admitting such a thing with an audience listening in, especially when one person present told stories like anyone else breathed air, wasn’t something she was willing to do. “Mostly, I think I resist the urge because Cáel and Ava seem awfully attached to you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Right. Of course. I totally believe you.”

Then Marian turned the conversation serious with the question of keeping watches over night. Even though they hadn’t run into any trouble during the day, they all agreed that keeping a watch was a necessity. Pairs, so that the danger of falling asleep was mitigated somewhat, and not pairs who were together, because though they were professionals, there could always be a lapse in judgement. 

Líadan ended up on midwatch with Anders. Anders and Justice, she supposed. It was disheartening to witness her friend slipping away, losing him in parts and pieces like a clan elder falling prey to the fog that sometimes took their minds before their bodies stopped working. Each time she’d been to Kirkwall for a few brief visits with Merrill—though she’d stopped a few years ago, when Kirkwall became too dangerous for unaccompanied mages—there had been less and less of Anders left. Like with the elders, it was difficult to figure out what to talk about, the gaps in their memory easy holes to catch a foot in while trying to reach the person they’d been for so long. Too many times, it ended with both parties upset, and neither able to place a solid finger on why.

The first part of their shared watch went by quietly. Líadan sat with her back to the banked embers of the fire in order to preserve her night vision, which was already leagues better than a human’s was. Anders sat on the other side of the log, facing the fire while scribbling away in a journal. Half the watch passed before either of them spoke. Though Líadan was fully alert, the suddenness of hearing a voice—even a familiar one—nearly made her jump.

“It bothers you, doesn’t it?” asked Anders. “That Merrill chose to keep working on her mirror instead of coming to see you.”

“It bothers me that she’s working on it at all, and you know that. Why even bring it up?”

“I was just thinking that I’m glad we didn’t bring Merrill.”

If she hadn’t been preserving her night vision, she’d have turned to glare at him for being ridiculous. Creators, Justice was an ass. He seemed to want to save Merrill from herself and blood mage ways, and yet at the same time, Justice disliked her for being a blood mage. Anders, in turn, did care about Merrill and her well-being, unlike Justice. “Why wouldn’t you want her along? If you think her feverish dedication to the eluvian would distract me, it wouldn’t. Especially since she’d be away from the eluvian, which is my goal. So that brings us back to me not knowing why you wouldn’t want her along.”

A couple more scratches of his quill were heard before he said, “I would be uncomfortable.”

Obviously it was Justice. Líadan didn’t want to keep watch with Justice; she wanted her friend. She decided to treat Justice like Anders in the hopes that it would chase the uptight spirit away. “Uncomfortable? Do you like her or something?”

“No! Of course I don’t like her.”

“How could you not like her? She takes care of Ser Pounce while living in an alienage. From what I’ve been told, that’s actually fairly hard to do.” The stories Nuala, Rhian, and Shianni had told her _still_ made her shudder. 

“She’s a blood mage.”

Definitely Justice. “While that’s true, I don’t think that had anything to do with taking care of Ser Pounce.”

“That isn’t what I meant.” Anders’ tone became snippy, even as he stepped over the log to sit next to her. “She might be fine right now, but that could change at any moment, simply because she is a blood mage.”

“Is she possessed? An abomination?” Which, truly, was an absurd conversation to be having with a man currently hosting a spirit in his own body. She could even see the tinge of blue glow under his skin again.

“Not yet. It’s just a matter of time.”

“The same could be said for any mage. Well, any somewhat powerful mage. I don’t count.”

For a moment, Anders didn’t say anything. Líadan slid a quick glance over to see him looking like he felt compelled by good manners to disagree. Then he let out a small sigh, and with it, the blue glow winked out. “No, you really don’t. Justice… he says he doesn’t see any demons after you. Or near you. Or that care about you anymore than they’d care about a non-mage. He can barely see your connection to the Fade, for that matter. The sloth demon was an aberration, and the pride demon was only trying to show up the sloth demon to prove it could accomplish what the lesser demon couldn’t.”

“Told you I wasn’t a good one.” She didn’t bother with hiding the smugness at being right.

“You’re good when you augment another mage’s ability, but otherwise, it’s mostly parlor tricks unless the connection entirely opens up. Which has happened how many times?”

“Twice, I think.” Anders’ expression asked for elaboration. “Both times, family was threatened or killed, or I was threatened.”

“That could be your weak point where the demons could get in.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not sure what a spirit could offer me that’d tempt me. I’ve got other skills at my disposal that suit me well enough, so why would I make a deal with a spirit? If I didn’t with that pride demon, I don’t see how I would otherwise.”

“And you don’t think Merrill will, either?”

“No.” It was one of the few things Líadan was absolutely certain about. “Making a deal with a spirit, she’d have to give up being _elvhen_. And that’s the most important thing to her in her life. I think it gives her more strength of will than anyone realizes.”

“I had not taken into account her devotion to the Dalish.”

Back to infuriating Justice again. “Most people don’t, considering she’s living among humans. But for all the work she’s done for the People, I believe she also sees her friends in Kirkwall as a clan, as well. Even you, even when you’re being an ass.”

“I’m fine with her,” said Anders, the inflection of his voice assuredly him. “It’s Justice who’s conflicted. One minute he’s railing on about her being a blood mage, and the next, he’s defending her because she’s a friend.”

“I know. I can tell when it’s him, even without the blue glow.”

“How?”

“Your speech patterns change. Justice speaks differently than you do. It’s hard to explain, but I can usually hear the difference. Do you even know when he’s taking over?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes not. I’m not sure how long I have left until I’m just gone.”

“I’ll miss you, you know.”

“I miss me already.” He sighed again, and then shifted, his emotional discomfort manifesting in a physical one as they sat in the dark. “How about we discuss happier things? For instance, how is the child I delivered doing?”

Líadan rested her chin in her hand, searching the night for an excuse not to answer the question. If it were just Anders—the Anders she’d known years ago in Ferelden—she would’ve answered without hesitation. Putting Justice into the mix made it hard to trust him, but this was most certainly Anders now, and he was in control. She really did want to talk to someone about it, especially since Merrill hadn’t wanted to visit. “Setting the world on fire,” she finally said out loud.

There was just enough of a pause from Anders to show exactly where his thoughts went before he took a stab at optimism. “Not literally, I hope?”

“Maybe.”

“A trick of the light, perhaps?”

“She might have tried to set her brother on fire, and there might have been lightning involved. But I can’t be sure because Cáel got rid of the evidence. I still don’t know where those shoes of his ended up, and he wouldn’t say. Nor would he tell me the entirety of what happened, and Ava was even more resistant, and there wasn’t enough time to really talk before we had to leave to come here. So, I’m not entirely certain what’s going on, but it’s enough to fill me with dread.” It didn’t help that she couldn’t get rid of the memory of what she’d witnessed. 

Though she’d had the trip from Denerim to Kirkwall to convince herself she’d imagined things, it hadn’t worked. She couldn’t shake the images of Cael’s surprise or Ava’s panic. All it had done was convince her that she’d seen exactly what she’d thought she’d seen, and she was kidding herself to believe otherwise.

“It’ll be a problem, won’t it? Bigger problem than the usual discovery of magic in a child?” His tone was gentle—the same tone he used when he told a patient they had an illness or injury that even he couldn’t heal.

“Yes.” She wasn’t sure what they would do if it were true, and she didn’t like to think of what might happen, because none of the scenarios were pleasant ones.

When Anders spoke again, his words had a hard edge as Justice slipped in. “You will not send her to the Circle.”

“Go away, spirit. I need to talk to my friend, not you.” Not that she had an argument with what he’d said. She agreed. What she did not like was that it hadn’t been a question; it had been a command.

“It is not just, how the Chantry treats mages.”

Her hands curled into fists at the frustration the spirit brought her. “This isn’t about the Chantry. This isn’t about your campaign against the unjust Chantry or your movement to free the mages from its control. This isn’t about Thedas or political consequences or anything like that, not now. It—”

“Every mage is part of the battle, whether they acknowledge it or not. You must—”

“This is about my child, my daughter. It doesn’t involve you, and if you were truly just, you would respect my wishes and let me talk to my _friend_.”

There was silence for a time, interrupted only by the brief flap of an owl’s wings as it took off from a nearby tree. Líadan recognized that Anders was fighting Justice, and could only hope that Anders would prevail. If he didn’t, she couldn’t be held responsible for what she’d do to the interfering spirit.

“I’m sorry,” said Anders. “Justice, he… he doesn’t get human emotion. He can only understand the world for what it is, and what parts have to be fixed because they’re not just. It’s about institutions and groups of people to him. He’s still working on grasping the concept of individual people and how their emotions about a subject aren’t going to be rational, no matter how much he decides to point out that they’re being irrational. He’s still got a long way to go.”

“He’s an ass.” And it was the nicest thing she could think to say about Justice.

“I’ve called him worse. Doesn’t really bother him, unfortunately. I’m sorry that he hurt you. I was shouting at him to shut up, but like he did with you, he ignored me. I know it’s about Ava, and not really anything else at this point. You’re afraid, and it’s warranted.”

“Obviously.” If Justice had never butted in, she would have shared more, but she didn’t feel safe speaking with Anders, not any longer.

He let out a sigh, indicating that he knew exactly why she’d become reticent, and that there was nothing he could do, unless he kicked out the spirit. “Does Malcolm know?”

“Not yet. I figured at least one of us shouldn’t have to worry for a little while longer. I’ll tell him after this mission is over.” She knew he’d have done the same if he’d been the one to witness the fight.

There was another shared silence, the gap where everything she would have discussed with her friend remained trapped inside out of fear of what the spirit might say to hurt her.

Then Anders said, “I’m sorry. I know you didn’t want this, even more than most.”

She didn’t reply, because she couldn’t trust herself to talk without every worry tumbling outward.

Then Justice said, “This is not the way this world should be—”

Líadan stood, unwilling to listen to the spirit. “Our watch is over. You wake the others. I’m going to go sleep.” Without waiting for acknowledgement, she started for the tent she shared with Malcolm.

“Líadan.” It was Anders, but she didn’t look back. She didn’t want to see the broken expression of a lost friend who couldn’t be saved.


	5. Chapter 5

“I find myself drawn inexplicably to the principal seal. My waking moments are consumed by thoughts of it. I make excuses so that I might visit it. Then there are the journals of the Warden mage who created the seal using the artifact known as the key: What is the key? Can the seal be broken without it?

I have begun to suspect that these thoughts are not my own. Close scrutiny of my emotions and thoughts have led me to the frightening conclusion that this obsession was planted in me by the creature they call Corypheus. Corypheus wants me to learn about the seal and the key so that he may pluck the knowledge from my mind. Corypheus wants to be free, and he will stop at nothing to achieve his goal.”

— _the last entry of the journal of Erasmus, a Grey Warden mage who, shortly after penning this entry, threw himself off the highest level of the prison tower in 1012 TE_

**Malcolm**

“Will you teach me how to hunt?” Malcolm asked Líadan, mostly because he was bored. Walking along a seemingly endless trail in an equally as seemingly endless forest got old, after a while. It had been a while, and it had gotten old, and they were still half a day away from the entry to the ancient fortress. Even then, since none of them fancied overnighting in what was pretty much the Deep Roads, they’d pitch a night camp a safe distance from the entrance, and then get started just before dawn the next morning. Also, Líadan had gone hunting with the shiny prince the day before, and she’d never taken _him_ hunting. While he wasn’t insulted or threatened in the least, acting indignant over it could serve to alleviate the boredom.

Líadan raised a sharp eyebrow at him. “You can’t even hunt the human way and you want to learn the Dalish way?”

“I… would look fetching in hunting leathers?”

“If you want to spend time alone with me, you could just say so.”

There were some things that didn’t need saying, and that was one of them, because he was always up for alone with his wife time, which she knew. Maybe she was bored, and more participation made for a better game. “So you don’t think I’d look fetching in hunting leathers?”

“I think you’d look fetching in hunting leathers,” said Sigrun.

His cheeks started to burn. He’d forgotten that Sigrun liked to play along.

“You want him?” asked Líadan. “I’ve been looking to foist him on someone else.”

“Hey!” said Malcolm. 

Sigrun shook her head. “No way. You married him. He’s all yours. I just like admiring his finer attributes from afar, and then pointing them out.”

That explained why she always insisted on walking in the rear of the column, he realized.

“Do you believe Malcolm would be such a terrible student?” asked Sebastian. “You have instructed apprentices before. Merrill has mentioned that you were good at it.”

“The problem is that he can’t move silently,” said Líadan. “Even if he truly wanted to learn, I’m not sure he could. Maybe he could set snares or traps, but stalking would be impossible. He’d crash around the forest, or get bored and start a conversation. You know, like he did just now.”

“So I could sort of learn? I didn’t think there was anything I could do when it comes to hunting.”

Líadan appraised him again, to which he shot her a hesitant smile. She returned it without the hesitation. “You’re a good sailor, according to Isabela. I know it involves working with rope and a lot of different knots—”

“It sure does,” said Sigrun.

Fenris chuckled as Líadan glared at her friend, and then resumed her explanation. “So, you could set competent snares, at the very least.”

“There’s hope for me yet!” Not that he much cared, but it was good to know he had something he could learn to do with hunting. Probably would’ve helped more to learn earlier in his life, however.

“I wouldn’t go too far. That’s about the extent of it.”

By the time they’d camped another night and ventured into the Vimmark Wasteland, the extent of their hope had reached a definite end, and it resembled the Silent Plains. Blighted land right smack in the middle of the Vimmarks, and none of them had known. Malcolm wasn’t even sure why there’d be blighted land still there. The rest of the area had recovered and then some since the Fourth Blight. 

“Did the humans know about this?” asked Sigrun.

“Not that I’m aware of,” said Malcolm. 

“What about the Dalish?”

Líadan squinted out toward the distant stone structures that didn’t look much better off than the ground they were built on. “The Dalish didn’t even know about this valley, much less anything else down there.”

“Huh.” Varric stared where Líadan was. “There really is a fortress here in the middle of nowhere.”

“It’s a blank spot on the map,” said Carver.

“It’s not blank!” Sigrun jabbed a finger at the map she held, as if to prove it. “It says ‘mountains,’ right there.”

“Because that’s descriptive.”

“Carver, that’s exactly what it is. Descriptive. What more would you like?” asked Bethany.

“Fame and fortune is my guess,” said Marian. When Carver grumbled and walked away, she shrugged and turned to others. “Shall we get going? The sun’s just barely up. If we hurry, we can get below ground before we get a chance to bask in its warm light.”

Anders let out a rueful laugh. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Marian, you should’ve been a Warden. With an outlook like that, you’d fit right in. Not to mention how you love to visit the Deep Roads.”

“I don’t love going there. Really, I don’t.”

“No? Then why don’t you ever turn down the jobs that require you going in them?”

“Insatiable curiosity, of course.” Marian gave Anders a solid pat on the arm as she walked by, headed in the direction of the fortress. “You should know that by now.”

They weren’t even halfway through the above ground ruins when crossbow bolts rained down on them from either side of the pass. Malcolm managed to raise his shield in time to keep two from hitting him. Another glanced off Carver’s shoulder. Sigrun disappeared into the shadows to go after the hidden archers, while Varric unslung Bianca and started firing bolts right back. Fenris gnashed his teeth—Malcolm hadn’t thought anyone _really_ did that until he’d met Fenris—and then did… something with his lyrium tattoos and Malcolm really needed to find out how he did that, because it was awesome. He didn’t even know why Fenris bothered with the big two-hander he wielded, because he could just ghost around and rip out everyone’s innards and call it a day.

Then a bolt burying itself into the dirt at his feet reminded him that he needed to pay attention. A few Carta had jumped out from their hiding spots, whom Marian immediately charged with her sword drawn. Sebastian seemed to take it in stride, bow out and strung and already firing surprisingly accurate arrows at their attackers. Carver, who’d finished swearing for the time being—honestly, the bolt hadn’t even drawn blood—shouted at his sister to stay back, but she ignored him and plunged onward. 

“Of all the—you’re going to get yourself killed!” Then he brought his two-hander to bear and chased after his sister.

Malcolm kept his shield up. Because everyone else had run off, that left him as the wall between the attacking Carta and the ranged fighters on his side: Anders, Bethany, and the two archers. By the look of things, his shield was going to have a lot of new dings in it. He and Líadan and Bethany had fought alongside each other often enough that they didn’t even have to think about what to do. Bethany had summoned her magic and started flinging offensive spells while still managing to stay inside what she knew from practice was the extent of Malcolm’s range in staying between her and the attackers. Líadan stayed within the same area, her concentration like Sebastian’s as she shot arrows from her own bow. 

The skirmish didn’t take terribly long. Most of the time was eaten up by trying to find the damned attackers, followed by putting them out of their misery. Since she was the first Warden to get close, Sigrun was the first to notice some differences in their attackers from the usual Carta. “Hey, you guys should look at this,” she shouted from behind a half-fallen stone wall. 

“Hold on,” said Malcolm, quickly striding over to where Marian and Carver had laid waste to the few that had dared engage them with blades. Something had seemed amiss, and he’d wanted to confirm it before he went speculating out loud. He’d only gotten his shield up in time at the start of the fight because he’d felt ghouls, and the glimpses he’d caught seemed to indicate that the Carta were what he’d felt. Once he was close enough, Malcolm crouched next to the nearest Carta member’s body to determine the truth. Sickly pale skin covered with blotchy black patches indicated corruption, and a peek under a few eyelids confirmed it. “Ghouls.” He stood up to face the rest of the party. “Or well on their way to becoming one.”

“That’s what I was going to tell you,” said Sigrun. “I wanted you to see them, because not only did they look like they were becoming darkspawn, they were talking about things that only happen to darkspawn. You know, like hearing…” she trailed off and looked at all the non-Wardens, and changed her mind on her wording. “...things.” Then she hopped off the ledge and onto the flat ground. “So let’s go kill some more.”

There wasn’t much opposition as they advanced toward the structure jutting out of a large chasm in the middle of the valley. Malcolm suspected, and Varric concurred, that the majority of the Carta waited below ground in the hideouts they’d build in and around the prison. Which meant they’d probably have to fight them to get _to_ the prison, though it would’ve been nice to avoid the delay.

It didn’t help that Malcolm had no idea how to get inside the prison, and Hildur and the documents she’d given him hadn’t revealed it, either. That was how the Wardens in the party ended up standing at the lip of the chasm, looking both up and down at the monstrous round tower built from stone, so tall they had to crane their necks up to see the top, and still couldn’t see the bottom when they looked down. Malcolm didn’t see anything pointing to an obvious entrance. Which, in retrospect, made a kind of sense, because getting in wasn’t something that should be easy, what with it being a secret prison.

“Is this it?” asked Fenris.

“Looks like it to me,” said Sigrun. 

Carver stepped up to the chasm’s lip to stand with the Wardens. “So how do we get up there? In there?”

Malcolm shrugged. “Not sure. It isn’t like we were given instructions.”

Carver scoffed. “No wonder the Wardens haven’t ended the Blights yet, with organization like that.”

“I’ll end your face if you don’t shut up,” said Líadan. 

Malcolm had to give Carver points for courage, because he actually turned to look at Líadan and address her threat. “You—”

“Try me. Because until you’ve fought an archdemon, you aren’t allowed to criticize.”

“Oh, come on. I did escape a sodding Blight.”

“Let me give you some advice, Junior,” said Varric as he deftly stepped in between them. “Let it go. You aren’t going to win this one. You escaped a Blight. They _ended_ one. Check back in when you’ve done the same.”

Carver took the time to glare at both Varric and Líadan before retreating to the rear of the group crowding on the edge of the chasm. Varric looked to be following for a moment, but broke off to inspect the wooden buildings nearby.

“So,” said Malcolm, not thrilled at the strife within the party, but not surprised, either, “Anders and Bethany. You two were here before. How’d you get in?”

“We didn’t go in,” said Bethany.

Anders, who seemed slightly more pale than usual, nodded. “Stroud had us stay outside, in case they didn’t come back out. They used an entrance in the Deep Roads, but it takes ages to get there. This was faster, I think. Less darkspawn, but more Carta.”

“At least they smell better,” said Marian.

Varric exited the building he’d entered, looking entirely pleased. “And I bet their hideout goes all the way to some sort of entrance to the prison, because there are a lot of stairs, and they all go down. Not to mention it seems like they’ve all contracted the blight sickness and they’re all babbling about a key or Hawke’s blood or darkspawn blood. Most direct route is through them, which means fighting a lot of Carta. Could you make them cry? I’d like to see that.”

Marian grinned. “For you, Varric, anything.”

As they descended, Malcolm was reminded of how much of a pain the ass it was to fight an organization populated almost entirely by deadly, sneaky people like Nathaniel. Even though the Carta they came against were nearly all far gone with the taint—like the poor fellow they’d found in the Deep Roads during the Blight, they’d consumed darkspawn flesh—it hadn’t limited their ability to set traps. Good traps. Traps that Varric and Sigrun couldn’t see from the rear of the group, and traps that Sebastian didn’t seem to feel like announcing until it was too late.

Right as an iron spear from a spike trap went through the gap between the sabaton and greave on Malcolm’s left leg, Sebastian called out, “Trap! Andraste’s grace, there’s a trap!”

Malcolm’s ankle didn’t hurt a little. It hurt a _lot_ , and Sebastian had proven as useless as Leliana had been when ‘helping’ them avoid traps. Maybe it was a Chantry thing, maybe it wasn’t, but Malcolm didn’t particularly care when he couldn’t even put weight on his foot. He dropped his shield, his sword right after it, and ripped off his helm in order to properly yell at the person who’d let him get hurt. “How about you say something a little sooner next time? Maybe before I’ve already got a spike through my leg? Because by then I already know there’s a trap. Because I triggered it. Because you didn’t say something in time.”

While Malcolm complained, Anders had pushed to the front. As he crouched to assess the damage, Sebastian ambled over to what Malcolm presumed was the switch and disarmed it. He knew Sebastian had disarmed it because the spikes retracted, leaving a small round hole of searing pain in Malcolm’s leg. As Anders quietly told Malcolm to sit down, Líadan crouched beside him to help remove the armor from his injured leg. In the meantime, Sebastian had the audacity to stand next to them, making a show out of glancing between them and the rest of the corridor probably riddled with Maker-forsaken traps.

“Perhaps one should not be sprinting ahead,” Sebastian said after a moment.

Malcolm had bitten down on enough unkind words and no longer felt the need to, because it wasn’t Sebastian’s leg that’d taken a spike through it. “Fine. Later, when a genlock wants to run up and bite the legs off the royal archer behind me, I’ll let him go right through because I’ll be too busy daintily stepping through the battlefield.”

“Good thing you said royal archer,” Líadan muttered as she undid the last buckle on his greave. “Or we’d be having some words, you and I.”

Anders let out a short, quiet laugh as he set to healing Malcolm’s leg. 

“It’s like you and Choir Boy have already realized you’re related to each other now,” said Varric.

Malcolm’s head snapped up. “What?”

Varric stroked his beardless chin. “Well, your brother—the adopted one, but a brother’s a brother—is married to Choir Boy’s sister, last I heard. That makes you brothers-in-law. Not quite the same as a brother, but related in the larger scheme of things. And now you’re also related to Marian because she’s married to your brother-in-law, which also means you’re related to Carver. My condolences. On the bright side, it means you’re also related to Sunshine. All through marriage, of course.”

“That got complicated quickly,” Sigrun said on her way by. Unlike useless scouts like Sebastian, she scampered ahead to disarm whatever traps she could find.

“It isn’t like I’ll let him die,” said Malcolm, though he didn’t say it was mostly because he liked Meghan, and she and Fergus had been good for each other, and he knew she wouldn’t want her brother dead. “Maybe let him get a little maimed, scuff up his armor, get some dirt on him, but not die.” Granted, he was perhaps feeling more magnanimous since Anders had finished healing his leg, which in turn no longer hurt, and was back to functioning normally. He thanked Anders and began to strap his armor back on.

“Well, I’m certainly relieved to hear it,” said Marian.

Sigrun came running back before anyone else could weigh in. “There’s more ahead. Just a few, and they didn’t detect me, but they’ll probably hear us soon. You know, because none of you can stop arguing.”

“I’m not arguing,” Malcolm said as he stood and tested his leg. “Just pointing things out.”

“Aveline fills the same role as you do, Malcolm, when she fights alongside us,” said Sebastian. “She does not complain about triggered traps. She is grateful when she is warned, and says nothing else on the matter. Perhaps it would do you well to learn from her example.”

“Actually, she does complain.” Marian gave Sebastian comforting, yet patronizing pat on the back. “Just not where you can hear it. Not that you’re the only one she complains about. She does insist that if she had others helping her with being a literal shield wall that she wouldn’t be getting the brunt of it all the time.”

“If Carver didn’t insist on using a sword so big that he needs two hands to hold it, so that he could actually pick up a damn shield, he’d make a good wall,” said Malcolm. And he would. Carver had the brawn, more than Malcolm did, so he’d be able to stand his ground. Plus, while Carver was fast for his size, he wasn’t spectacularly fast. Fenris, however, was just that sort of spectacular. The way he could deal damage to the enemy with such blinding speed would’ve meant wasting his talents if he were made to use a shield. But Carver would’ve honestly served better if he’d deigned to use a shield.

“I’m not going to prance around with a tiny sword like you do,” said Carver. 

“Comparing sword sizes?” Bethany asked her brother. “What are you? Twelve?”

“Right, no arguments going on here,” said Sigrun, who mostly went ignored.

“I elect we go kill the rest of the Carta in our way,” said Varric as he started down the corridor. “I haven’t seen enough of them cry this morning.”

Malcolm grumbled under his breath as he fastened his shield back onto his arm. He didn’t have a tiny sword. It was a royal sword. It had been his brother’s sword before it was his, and before that, it had been Maric’s sword. He hefted the sword in question and took one step toward the corridor before Líadan reached out and hit his chest with his helm, which he had forgotten.

“You might need this, Killer,” she said. 

He sighed, sheathed his sword, put his helm on, and then took out his sword again. His not tiny sword, no matter what Carver said. Also, he did not prance. And shouldn’t Carver be on his side in the first place, since they both weren’t very keen on Sebastian?

Líadan smiled at him as she nudged him forward. “And don’t worry, your sword isn’t tiny.”

He turned his head to look at her, glad that his helm hid the blush that’d risen to his cheeks. “I wasn’t—I didn’t mean it as a metaphor. I was talking about my actual sword.” No, that wouldn’t work, either. “My literal sword.” He held it up to illustrate. “This one. The one I use to kill things, not whatever it was you were referring to.”

“Of course you are.”

“Seriously, I mean it.”

His wife’s widening smile told him she didn’t believe him at all. “Of course you do.” 

Behind Líadan, Bethany had already started to laugh, even as readied spells glowed at her fingertips. 

“Oh, for Maker’s sake! You’re both awful.” Then Malcolm cut his losses and gave up, choosing to focus on getting to the front of the line before someone else got hurt. When he got there, he found that Varric and the others had already engaged the Carta—in conversation.

Not the normal sort of conversation, where people exchanged pleasantries and such. Varric was trying to convince someone who had once been a dwarf and was encroaching on becoming a darkspawn that his idea of drinking darkspawn blood in an attempt to hear music wasn’t sane. Because it wasn’t, and no one really ever came back from that.

Sigrun pointed that out to Varric, to which Varric sighed. “He’s the dwarf who made Bianca. I can’t just let him go on like this.”

“No, you can’t.” Sigrun gave Varric a significant look, then her eyes went to Bianca, then Gerav, then she signaled with her hand that there were two more Carta dwarves waiting in the shadows.

After giving her a subtle nod in return, Varric brought Bianca to bear, and then fired a bolt straight at Gerav. At the same time, Líadan and Sebastian shot their own arrows at the Carta hidden in the shadows that Sigrun had so kindly pointed out. The last three Carta were dropped within seconds of each other. Neat and efficient and definitely a rarity, in Malcolm’s experience.

Varric knelt over his friend’s body, whispering something over him for a moment. When he stood, he seemed somewhat less rattled. “Hey, Princeling, could you have cured him? Like the other Wardens did with Sunshine?”

“Not when they’re that far gone, no. I’m sorry.” He didn’t bother pointing out that becoming a Grey Warden wasn’t a cure. With Avernus’ changes to the Joining potion, it was more a cure than it had ever been, but in the end—if reached—the results were still the same. Either way, Gerav never had that chance. One didn’t eat darkspawn flesh and drink their blood without becoming one of them very, very quickly.

“So am I,” said Varric. 

“What were they all talking about?” asked Carver. “A bunch of nonsense, if you ask me. The Master rising, the Master being free, the Master calling to them. Gibberish, all of it.”

“I believe it is safe to assume these dwarves wished to free the ancient magister whom the Wardens have kept prisoner,” said Sebastian.

Maybe Carver using such a big sword was a compensation for a tiny brain, thought Malcolm, because it was entirely obvious what the Carta had been on about with their talk.

Marian, who’d undertaken a thorough search of the room, had yet to lose her look of puzzlement. “All right, this has been bothering me for ages, so I’m just going to ask. Why would the Carta want to free the imprisoned ancient magister? Even the Carta aren’t usually stupid enough to try to go freeing something the Grey Wardens thought too dangerous to roam free.”

“You’ve got me there.” Varric took some papers Marian handed to him, and began to page through them. “The Carta is usually only about business and brutality. Not necessarily in that order.”

“I don’t think they were themselves,” said Bethany.

Líadan nodded in agreement. “They weren’t. Not with how far gone they were. Corypheus must have been controlling them. Maybe like the archdemon controls the darkspawn.”

There wasn’t a maybe about it, Malcolm realized. Like him, he was pretty sure the other Wardens could hear Corypheus calling to them like an archdemon would. It wasn’t music as the ghouls had described—which was a relief—but an annoying buzz that was _almost_ intelligible, but not quite. He could feel the insistence in the call, but he didn’t feel compelled to follow it, or find its source and free it. He was still totally on board with killing it. From the looks he traded with the other Wardens, he could see they were experiencing the same thing. Anders still seemed a little pale, but Malcolm couldn’t be sure if he were misremembering. Anders’ pallor had trended toward sickly for the past few years, courtesy of an extended amount of time in Darktown, or the work of the Fade spirit sharing his body. Or maybe Justice wasn’t particularly fond of doing actual Grey Warden work, which was possible, since Justice had been the one who’d made the decision for Anders to leave the Wardens.

“Best we go kill it,” said Sigrun, “before it starts getting into our heads.”

“And I thought it was just me,” said Bethany. 

Marian frowned at her sister, and then the rest of the Wardens, who all declined to meet her gaze. “None of you are going to explain that, are you?”

“Nope,” said Malcolm.

At the same time, Bethany said, “Sorry, sister.”

“Don’t worry, Hawke,” said Varric. “I’ll explain it to you later.”

Somehow, Malcolm wasn’t surprised that Varric knew Warden secrets. He’d have been more surprised if Varric hadn’t known. But he also wasn’t worried about Varric knowing—Varric was a benevolent dealer of information, and had a keen grasp of what information could upset the delicate balance that was peace throughout Thedas. Varric liked to _know_ , but he didn’t much tell. He told stories, yes, but not so many secrets. It made him shockingly trustworthy, at least to Malcolm.

After taking stock of their preparedness, the group headed downward, into the depths of the Warden prison. The amount of decoration took Malcolm by surprise. It seemed everywhere they turned, they were confronted with a motif of the Grey Wardens. Whether it was large griffon statues serving as guardians to long-abandoned corridors, or exquisite carvings of the Joining cup, it all seemed to shout that this place had been built by the Wardens. Outside of Weisshaupt, Malcolm hadn’t seen anything rivaling this prison when it came to draping itself in Warden trappings. Vigil’s Keep, Soldier’s Peak, and the Denerim compound in Ferelden had a few banners, but that was pretty much it.

Perhaps he should requisition a griffon statue from Weisshaupt when they got back home. He was sure Hildur would go along with it—she never turned down a chance to tweak the collective noses of the Anders Wardens.

“Do the Grey Wardens of Ferelden have anything like these statues in their outposts?” asked Sebastian.

“If we do, they’re hidden extremely well,” said Malcolm.

Sigrun ran her hand appreciatively along the griffon’s wing. “I think we should bring one back with us. Spoils of war.”

“It seems unnecessary for a prison,” said Carver. “Wasteful. The Wardens should have been concentrating on killing darkspawn and ending blights, not commissioning pretty statues.”

Marian turned to gawk at her brother. “Have you _seen_ the size of the statues in the Gallows? No one in service to the Chantry has any right to criticize any other organization’s choice in statues. Not until that fifty foot tall Andraste comes down.”

“Tearing down the statue of the Maker’s bride would be sacrilege,” said Sebastian.

“Then start by removing the statues of slaves from the Gallows.” Fenris embellished his statement with a look of disgust shot in what seemed to be the direction of Kirkwall. “Due to the excesses of the magisters, it would take some years to finish the task.”

“I’m not listening,” Anders muttered from the rear of the group.

“Then be silent, mage,” said Fenris.

Startled as he was by what he heard in his head, Malcolm barely heard Fenris’ rebuke. The call had changed from the maddening buzz to very angry, very recognizable words. 

_You will help me rise. You will abandon your quest to stop me and help bring me to the light. Leave the others behind. Attend to me._

Yeah, no.

Feeling no compulsion to obey, Malcolm ignored it, even if it was jarring. He did glance over at Líadan, who’d tightened her grip on her bow and cast a glare upward, toward the top of the prison as they crossed over one of many bridges. Then she looked over at him and shrugged. From Bethany and Sigrun’s confused looks, and Anders’ actual reply, it was easy to assume the other Wardens had heard the same thing as him. The deeper they went into the prison, the stronger Corypheus’ voice got, but at least they weren’t drawn to him or driven to obey him, like darkspawn would be, or those stupid tainted Carta members.

“So how do we know we’re going the right way?” asked Marian. 

“The griffons make a good trail. Daisy would like it,” said Varric.

Carver scoffed. “The only good things about Wardens are their griffons, and they’re all dead. You know what the Wardens need more of?”

“What?” asked Malcolm, not caring if he sounded irritated, because he was irritated, and Carver had been allowed too many cracks at the Wardens’ expense as it was.

“Maps. This would go a lot quicker if we had a proper map.”

“Because a map of a prison holding an ancient magister is totally something you want falling into the wrong people’s hands. Because it would.”

“Are you always this jaded?” asked Varric. “Doesn’t seem like you.”

“Only when it comes to darkspawn. Also ancient magisters.”

“You been talking with Broody?”

“I would have killed it,” said Fenris. “As the Wardens should have, like they do with archdemons and darkspawn.”

Malcolm half-listened as the conversation continued, the lot of them traipsing through halls that hadn’t been walked by those not doomed in a long time. He could feel the writhing mass of darkspawn below, but couldn’t sort out if any were nearby. There were just too many of them, or Corypheus was manipulating what could be detected through the taint, like the Architect had done. Maker, Fenris was right. The Wardens should never have built an entire sodding prison to hold a powerful and puzzling specimen of darkspawn who they believed was an ancient magister. They’d even speculated that Corypheus was one of _the_ magisters who’d stepped through the Veil and into the Golden City. Malcolm was pretty sure if it was, he hadn’t learned his lesson, not judging by the shouting he was doing through the taint. His requests were the same as before, but his temper was getting more out of control each time Malcolm and the other Wardens didn’t obey him. While the others got disgruntled or determined looks on their faces each time Corypheus tried, Anders kept saying things out loud. Things like, “Get out of my head!” which wasn’t very subtle at all.

Anders really needed to stop, but Malcolm couldn’t see a way to get him to that wouldn’t betray the reason why they needed him to stop to the non-Wardens with them. Keeping even a few secrets from Marian and the others was already going to be highly difficult, but if Anders kept it up, it would be nigh impossible. If Marian and Varric and the others discovered more Warden secrets—because a secret Warden prison wasn’t enough—then he’d have a lot of explaining to do to Hildur. To a very disappointed Hildur. A Hildur who frightened him an awful lot, because when she got disappointed, she got serious, and when she got serious, she sent people on awful errands that threatened to break their very will to live.

Not that Malcolm had extensive experience with the sort of retaliation Hildur meted out when it came to stupidity. Or that he had any wish to encounter it ever again, because he’d learned his damned lesson the first time.

“Líadan,” said Sebastian, “I was curious.”

“Your sister already told me about that stage of your life,” said Líadan. “Those were some good stories.”

Marian picked up her pace to walk next to Líadan. “You simply must tell me everything. Everything.”

Sebastian cleared his throat. “Not… that curiosity. I was wondering what the Dalish teach about the creation of the darkspawn.”

“We don’t, actually,” said Líadan. “They’re just there or not there. We think about them when they’re there, and when they’re not, we don’t. Unless we’re Grey Wardens. Then, you know, vigilance.”

“Is that even an answer?” asked Varric.

“Sounded like a Dalish answer to me,” said Malcolm. Specifically, it sounded like something a Keeper or a First would say, but he would never say that out loud, because he liked being alive.

The problem was, he’d been married for enough years that his wife knew him quite well, and therefore knew exactly what he _hadn’t_ said. She spun to face him, walking backwards as she kept up with Marian. “Just what are you implying?”

“Nothing. No implications.” The less he said, the better, or he’d start tripping over his own words. 

Líadan gave him the same disbelieving stare she gave the children when they were clearly avoiding the truth. It was as effective on him as it was with them, and only Sigrun’s shout from ahead saved him from being raked over the pyre.

“I found some demons!” Sigrun yelled from where she’d gone to scout ahead of them. She popped out from a side entrance and chucked a thumb at a larger one. “Goes to the same room. Bunch of demons in there.”

“Did they not see you?” asked Sebastian.

Sigrun grinned. “Oh, they saw me. They just couldn’t get to me. You have to see this.”

As it turned out, the Wardens had seen fit to imprison a number of demons in magical cells, which according to the description Hildur had given Malcolm, was part of the corridor leading up to the first seal they needed to break.

_Yes, break the seal. Bring me to the sun. You will be rewarded._

Malcolm continued ignoring Corypheus, in part because he was far more intrigued by the demons. While the quarried stones that had built the prison showed edges blunted by the passing of the ages, the shimmer of magic holding the demons within their cells remained bright, no less strong than when the spell had been cast.

Marian kicked at the base of one of the cells, causing the desire demon inside to toss her a sultry smile in return. “There’s got to be a reason they’re in there,” Marian said, pointedly looking away from the demon and toward her friends.

“I don’t know, Hawke.” Varric kept to the far edge of the wide corridor, his shoulder scraping the wall. “Maybe because they’re demons? That would be my guess.”

The demon flashed a nipple at Marian, to which Marian rolled her eyes. “Other than that.”

“Sounded like a pretty good reason to me,” said Carver.

“Yes, but why are they trapped _here_?” Marian flung a scowl at the desire demon, who’d fully bared both breasts to her. “I thought this was a prison for this Corypheus fellow, not random creatures of the Fade.”

“Maybe to draw off the curious who cannot help but open anything their clever minds can, for the sport of it?” Sebastian gave Marian a pointed look. 

She straightened and took a few hasty steps away from the desire demon’s cell. “That was years ago!” 

“There was an ancient evil sealed beneath Kirkwall, and you had to solve the puzzle, merely because it existed.”

“I did solve it.” When she crossed her arms, Marian resembled more an insolent child than a grown woman. “I merely underestimated what sort of  ‘ancient evil’ the scroll meant.”

“This is killing me,” said Malcolm. “What was it?”

“Just a huge, scary pride demon,” said Varric. “No sweat.”

Marian nodded. “Right! We killed it. It may have… taken some time, but we did kill it.”

“I still have a scar, you know.” Sebastian managed to sound so pitiful that Malcolm nearly felt bad for him, even though he was mostly sure Sebastian was teasing Marian.

A delighted glint flashed in Marian’s eyes as she turned to Sebastian. “Do you want me to kiss you and make it better? Or other things? Because I totally would. Right here.”

“Sister!” said Carver. 

Marian winked at him.

“So,” said Sigrun, “are we going to free these things or not? Because I’m getting itchy fingers.”

“Do any of you feel like fighting demons?” asked Fenris.

“No, not particularly,” said Bethany. 

“Then leave them locked up, so they may mire in their cursed prisons forever.”

“Is there anything that isn’t cursed?” Malcolm asked him. 

Fenris straightened, and his scowl seemed to lift a little. “Butterflies,” he said after a moment. As the rest cast bewildered looks in his direction, he resumed walking down the corridor. 

Having taken the hint, the rest followed. The demons called to each member of the group as they passed, offering deals and temptations, or pleading for mercy from eternal boredom. None of the mortals engaged the demons in conversation, and the Wardens’ attention was drawn by another before they’d even finished walking past the gauntlet of Fade creatures.

_None can avoid the fire in my veins. None can ignore my call. You will see._

Malcolm really wanted to tell him to shut up, but that would have to wait. Despite whatever the ancient magister believed, Corypheus wasn’t the most important thing to him and the other Wardens at the moment.

Beyond the increasingly angry call from Corypheus, a single presence separated from what felt like a mass of darkspawn around them. The sudden appearance of a source of the taint that wasn’t the magister or an indiscernible wall of darkspawn sent fingers of alarm racing up Malcolm’s spine. He halted just past the last cell, the growling rage demon not even registering in his mind as he sought out the lone darkspawn. It was heading for them, but he couldn’t figure out where it would appear.

Their group had emerged from the corridor and into a larger room, the last third of which had long ago crumbled and fallen into whatever waited below. When he stepped up to the edge and peeked over the side, Malcolm could only see a gaping maw of darkness. Vertigo began to creep in, yet he continued to search, up until someone grabbed his arm and jerked him away from the edge. He spun from the pull, and found himself face to face with a very irritated Líadan. 

She poked him in the chest with the end of her bow. “You know how I feel about heights.”

He glanced behind him and turned to her again. “I know, but I’m not you.”

A brief twinge of worry broke through her irritation. “No, but it wouldn’t—just stay away from the edge, all right?”

Recognizing her other, deeper fear, Malcolm took another step away from the sudden drop, and gave her hand a squeeze before he let go.

“Darkspawn coming,” said Bethany.

Her declaration sent the non-Wardens in the group to staring into the shadows around them, as the Wardens had been doing since they’d left the corridor. “How many?” asked Marian. She’d taken point again, following her natural instinct when the Wardens had slowed to investigate what they’d felt. 

“Just one, feels like,” said Anders.

Sigrun squinted toward the walkway ahead of them, where shafts of light from a sun hidden above cut through some of the shadows to bathe the stone in light. “From somewhere ahead.” 

“Sister,” said Bethany, her tone taking a hard edge. While the other Wardens had heard it plenty from her during battle, Marian apparently had not, and certainly wasn’t used to it being directed toward her. Her head snapped around as she gave her younger sister a look of shock. Bethany’s deadly seriousness abated for a moment. “I’d like you to not die of blight. Mother would be furious.”

Marian gave a short laugh, and then she ceded the lead to the Wardens.

“Nearly here,” said Líadan, bow in one hand and arrow in another as she stepped through to the front. Malcolm was right behind her and then in front of her, Bethany, and Anders. Next to Malcolm, Sigrun moved lightly from one foot to the other, readying to start her own little dark dance when the fight began.

The supposed darkspawn shambled from the shadows, and the group held ready to dispatch it once it was within range. Malcolm heard the creak of bowstrings drawn, the cocking of Varric’s crossbow, and his skin tingled as Anders and Bethany drew on the Fade. Then the darkspawn stepped into the light cast from the sky far above.

Malcolm nearly dropped his sword. “Hold,” he said, the order sounding stronger than he felt.

“Looks more human than darkspawn,” said Carver. “Is that another ghoul? Shouldn’t we kill it?”

“Shut up, brother,” said Bethany.

“Why should I?”

“He’s wearing Warden colors, you dolt,” said Marian. “He isn’t a ghoul. He’s a Grey Warden, like them.”

Was, thought Malcolm. He was just like them, once.

Marian continued, breaking away from scolding her brother in favor of asking questions only non-Wardens needed to ask. “How does a Warden end up like this? I thought you were immune.”

Their supposed immunity was a common enough mistake to become a myth. Because the truth was too terrible to be known, it was a myth the Wardens allowed to perpetuate.

“The Calling comes to us all,” said the near-darkspawn who had once been a human man. “It… it is a voice we cannot resist, and we follow it to our deaths. I went to mine, in the darkness, but Corypheus called. I followed. Here I am.”

Though the cadence had some pauses, as if he had to recall how to speak, it was his. The shell of the man who stood before them in wrecked leathers with tattered scraps of blue left from what had once been a Warden tabard was someone they’d last seen in the Deep Roads, leaving on his Calling. He’d gone in the opposite direction from the other Warden party, leading the darkspawn away so the others could travel unopposed. Unable to resist the taint of a Warden so close to their own, the darkspawn had given chase. That day, Malcolm, Líadan, Sigrun, Anders, and the others had believed their Warden-Commander to have died. That it would be the last time any of them would see him. And now, here they stood, realizing that they had been terribly wrong.

Líadan was the first to say it, a hesitant guess voiced out of a desperate necessity. “Riordan?”


	6. Chapter 6

“Like many of you, I was once a thieving wretch. I was a servant to coin and my own base desires. And that is when I heard his call. Corypheus opened my eyes, just as he has opened yours, and showed me what was true. 

What is the Carta beside Corypheus? Nothing but dust and ashes. Only Corypheus is eternal. We are his hands and his eyes on the surface. We are the ones he honored with his trust, to dig him from his prison in the Deep Roads.

When Corypheus steps into the sunlight, we will be rewarded. Praise him! Praise Corypheus!”

— _from a scrap of parchment, evidently notes from a speech_

**Líadan**

“I was Riordan.”

His Calling had never ended. He’d never rested his eyes. He’d never found his freedom from the nightmares, the calling of the Old Gods, or from the Creators-forsaken taint. He’d never found his long-awaited peace. His path had no end, and they had let him go down it.

They had watched Riordan walk into the Deep Roads over seven years ago, carrying only his daggers. No food. No pack. One did not need to bring items for sustaining life when one was setting out to end it. His weary soul had needed rest, to be freed of the taint and the cloying shadows it carried, but he’d never found his peace.

He’d wandered for years in the darkness, and no one had gone to save him.

“Maker,” said Anders.

Riordan’s hair had fallen out in clumps, leaving only erratic tufts clinging to his scalp. His skin was mottled and grey, some areas seeming like they were sloughing off, others thick and gnarled. A white film covered eyes that had once been a bright, engaging mix of blue and green. Líadan wanted to wipe the film from his eyes, find all the missing hair and put it back, put everything back to rights and restore her friend and mentor, but it was too late for that.

“You were supposed to go to the Stone,” said Sigrun.

“I am dead,” said Riordan, “but I never died.”

They’d watched him as he strode away, his steps quick and sure, his manner almost content with the path he’d chosen. But it hadn’t been the path he’d taken. They’d lived their lives above ground, while he was lost for years below. “Then we abandoned you,” said Líadan.

Riordan shook his head. “No. I left. My choice. My Calling.”

“You were supposed to—before _this_ happened, you—”

Riordan’s clouded eyes widened, and his stooped shoulders briefly straightened. “He calls now. I must go. I must answer.”

Then he was gone, his ability to fade into the shadows not having been lost. Not when he’d become the shadows, and they hadn’t even known.

Darkspawn fell upon them, eliminating any chance they had at tracking Riordan. Cutting through them took up the entirety of their attention, the five Wardens dropping into roles that they’d played for years—even Anders hadn’t rusted in his ability to kill darkspawn. His glyphs kept them healthy, while Bethany’s offensive magic burned the darkspawn several at a time. Malcolm positioned himself between any charging darkspawn and the ranged fighters in their group, absorbing blows meant for the mages or the archer. Sigrun flashed in and out of the battle, the light from above sometimes catching on the blades of her axes. Líadan stayed back with Bethany and Anders, sending arrow after arrow into the targets she sighted, her focus on her task and _not_ thinking about the lost Riordan.

It had been _years_. She’d been upset and unsettled for a while after he’d taken his Calling, but she’d eventually come to terms with it. The double blow of losing Riordan so soon after unexpectedly losing Fiona had left her feeling somewhat lost, herself. But in the intervening months and years, she’d regained her perspective, and found her way again.

Right up until they’d stumbled on a dead-but-not Riordan in a secret Grey Warden prison. Her next arrow pierced the cheek of the hurlock she’d targeted. She cursed and shot another, hitting it in the eye as it reeled sideways. It fell backwards to land on two genlock corpses, and didn’t rise. Líadan glanced around for her next target, but there were none. The additional help of Marian and her companions had easily doubled the pace at which they got through battles. While earlier it had been a boon, now Líadan wasn’t so thrilled with it. Fighting would keep her mind from ruminating over Riordan’s fate. Fighting would drown out the overwhelming guilt that they’d never thought to rescue him.

Yet now that they knew he hadn’t met his final end, they couldn’t go searching for him, not reliably. There was nothing to feel that they hadn’t felt before his appearance. Writhing mass of taint above and below, and no individuals emerging from it, not until they were nearly in their faces. In every practical sense, he was gone.

Líadan avoided talking, choosing instead to recover her arrows from the darkspawn, and even nicely collecting Sebastian’s arrows at the same time. Not really out of the goodness of her heart, but because it postponed having to acknowledge that she’d been left more than a little off balance. Then she’d collected all the arrows she could find and glanced back and forth between her group and the dark bridge and corridors beyond. There had to be more battles ahead, if they just got there faster.

“Are you all right?” Malcolm asked from a few paces away.

She gave him a look that told him exactly how stupid a question it was.

He shrugged it off, his lips quirking into a rueful half-smile. “It seemed rude not to ask, even if I knew the answer beforehand. Because I did.”

Part of her wanted to be able to talk about it, but not with people around who wouldn’t understand. While Marian and the others were certainly friends, they weren’t Wardens. Since she couldn’t talk, she needed more distractions. “I could use more darkspawn to kill.”

“You and me both, sister,” said Sigrun. “Though I’d take some demons, in a pinch.”

Malcolm looked between the two of them, and then nudged a genlock corpse with his boot. “Would kicking these bodies into the depths help out any?”

“Actually, yes.” Líadan got started with the one at her feet, rolling it to the edge and right off the bridge. Sigrun and Malcolm joined in, along with Bethany, and they made fairly short work of clearing the way for the non-Wardens. Anders was busy grumpily healing a tweaked elbow that Fenris had failed to mention before.

The four of them straightened and found Marian standing at the foot of the bridge, her arms crossed and her face determined. “Someone,” she said, “is going to tell me what’s going on with this ‘Calling’ business.”

“Sorry, can’t,” said Malcolm. “Warden stuff. I’d tell you more, but I’m not allowed, and I’m way more scared of Hildur than I am of you. Don’t get me wrong, you’re pretty far up on the list, but Hildur’s still above you.”

Before Marian could press him further, Anders said, “Becoming a Grey Warden isn’t a cure.”

Malcolm sighed. “Dammit, Anders. You shouldn’t—”

“It’s really just of way of slowing the inevitable,” Anders continued, paying no attention to Malcolm’s objections, or the disgruntled looks from the other Wardens in the group, including Bethany. “You’re still tainted, but it takes around thirty years or so before it catches up with you. Sometimes more, sometimes less. In the end, you’ll still end up a ghoul. So, instead of waiting around for the inevitable, Wardens march into the Deep Roads to die fighting the darkspawn. It’s called the Calling.”

Marian’s eyes had widened slightly as Anders spoke, and when he ended, she slid her gaze over to Bethany. “Is this true?”

Bethany opened her mouth to answer, then shut it and glanced over at Malcolm and Líadan, silently asking for permission to continue revealing what Anders had started. Malcolm motioned with his hand for her to talk, making it clear that Anders had already given away too much for anything to be taken back.

“Yes, it’s true,” said Bethany. “I didn’t want you to know.” She pointed at Carver. “And don’t you dare tell Mother. She’s dealt with enough. She doesn’t need to carry this.”

“I’m sorry,” said Marian.

Bethany shrugged. “It is what it is, as Aveline would say. Better than the alternative.”

Her brow furrowed, and then Marian turned to Anders again. “What about Wardens who don’t happen to contract the blight sickness before they become Wardens?”

It was Líadan who spoke up this time. “Anders, don’t—”

“What do you think the Joining is?” asked Anders. “The Joining potion isn’t a fancy wine.”

“For Maker’s sake, Anders!” Malcolm stepped forward, having gone from irritated to verging on angry. “Should we just sit down for a break right here while you regale them with every Warden secret there is? Or could you, you know, show some respect and solidarity for the order you abandoned?”

It wasn’t Anders who answered. The lyrium-blue of Justice’s possession blazed through Anders’ eyes and skin, driving him toward Malcolm. “It is an order undeserving of respect. They encourage the use of blood magic. They force recruits to take the Joining potion or be killed for fear of their secrets being revealed to the world. They give no warning. They give no quarter. They are not just.”

“Neither are the darkspawn, if you haven’t noticed.” Malcolm hadn’t retreated as Justice advanced, and the two of them stood only a sword’s length apart. Anders’ height left Malcolm looking up at him, though Malcolm was usually half a head taller than most human men. Anders, like Merrill had said before, was somewhat of a giant. And with Justice possessing him, he was imposing, as well. But if Malcolm felt the same menace as Líadan felt in the confrontation, he didn’t react to it.

“If one must resort to the tactics of the darkspawn, one is not worthy of the victory.”

“Being alive and slightly bloodied is a lot better than being dead with unsullied honor. Anders knows that, Justice. Maybe you should listen to him. Maybe you should listen to the rest of us, who have been mortals for a lot longer than you. You don’t know anything about being a mortal, demon, no matter how—”

Justice drew his arms back and then flung them forward, throwing a bolt that sent Malcolm skidding on his back to the middle of the bridge. “I am no demon!”

Shouts went up from the group as Justice stepped forward and brought his staff to bear. Carver hit him with a smite that barely slowed him, and an arrow from Líadan’s bow skimmed Justice’s ear. Blood flowed freely from the cut, but Justice didn’t stop.

“Hey! He’s an ally!” shouted Marian. “Justice!”

Líadan sprinted toward them, intending to put herself between Malcolm, who was trying to scramble to his feet while holding his shield over his body, and Justice, who seemed intent on using his stave like a spear. But Sigrun had traveled faster through the shadows, catching the staff between her axes and pushing its tip into the stone underfoot. 

“He’s your friend,” said Sigrun. Justice took a half-step, but Sigrun planted her feet and forced him to stay put. “I’m your friend,” she told him when he turned his rage from Malcolm to the dwarf in his way. “And you are his friend.”

“I am no friend,” said Justice. “I owe him nothing.”

“He saved the life of the body you inhabit,” said Líadan. “I was there. Those templars would have killed Anders or made him Tranquil if Malcolm hadn’t intervened. How is it justice if Justice kills him over a minor disagreement?”

“It would not be…” Then Justice slumped and his blue light winked out, leaving Anders to deal with the consequences. “...just,” Anders said, sounding even more tired than he had before they’d gone into the prison. 

Sigrun lowered her axes and took a step back. 

“I’m sorry,” Anders said to her, and then turned to Malcolm. “I’m sorry. I am.” Then he offered his hand to help Malcolm up. After he looked at it dubiously, Malcolm accepted the help while Anders castigated himself. “Justice just couldn’t stay contained, not with the voice. He’s so frustrated with hearing it over and over, with fighting its commands, with the Wardens for having the connection in the first place. I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” said Bethany.

Líadan raised an eyebrow at Bethany’s quietly spoken condemnation. While Bethany had settled into the life of a Warden well enough, she’d never been particularly enthusiastic about the order. Then again, neither was she, and neither was Malcolm, but they did what they had to, and enjoyed what parts of it they could. Being in the Wardens, even if you didn’t like it, meant you still got a first-hand understanding of why the Wardens were necessary to Thedas. Anders revealing secrets like he was put the Wardens in danger, and without the Wardens, the next Blight would never end. They all knew the danger, and that was what made them keep the secrets. Anders—Justice—had ignored that.

“You had about thirty more seconds left before I was going to put an end to you, for good,” said Marian. Her voice was as quiet as her sister’s, which made it far more menacing since Marian was rarely soft spoken. “Don’t forget my promise, Anders. I won’t break it. Not even here.” She let out a long breath before turning to Malcolm. “Onward, then?”

He nodded and set off without a word.

After a few minutes, Líadan noticed that Anders’ ear still bled. He’d never bothered to heal it, even though to a healer like him, such a thing would be a reflex. He was punishing himself, and she wouldn’t let him. She caught up to him. “Your ear. You haven’t fixed it.”

“I know.”

“If you don’t fix it, I’ll have to try.”

The smile was minuscule and fleeting, but was there. “Only from you would that be a threat.”

“It isn’t a bluff, so get to healing, healer.” She chose her words deliberately, a reminder to him of the identity he treasured most: healer. If anything could save him, it was that. But now she wondered if it would only delay the inevitable, given Justice’s recent displays of strength.

“All right.” His hand went briefly to his ear. When he removed it, no hint of the cut remained. “Nice shot, by the way. Enough an injury to make your point, but not enough to kill or maim me.”

“You did threaten my bondmate. Who said I was aiming for your ear?”

He looked at her sidelong. “You can be scary, you know.”

“Keeps people off balance.”

He nodded. “It works. Justice doesn’t know what to make of you.”

“I don’t care about him. I care about my friend. And if he ever entirely gets rid of my friend, Justice won’t like me at all.”

Anders had no reply, and so the quiet slog went on until they broke first of the prison’s seals.

The ensuing fight with the pride demon that appeared provided a far less tense atmosphere than the silence that had prevailed before. Battle was easy. No thoughts aside from the moment, and the few moments that could happen afterward. Reacting when plans didn’t go right, strategizing when plans seemed to work. Dodging the bolts of fire the demon sent the archers’ way, calling out warnings to those close in when the demon prepared for other attacks, shouting at loved ones when they didn’t seem to move fast enough to avoid a stomping foot or a fist of flame aimed at their head—all of it served well to keep the reality that a friend was turning into an abomination out of their minds, or that their former Warden-Commander’s Calling had never ended. 

Eventually, the pride demon fell, and they were able to continue onward. But the strange call of Corypheus hounded them, declaring his satisfaction with their ability to break the seals. Anders kept swearing under his breath about the voice, but he was the only Warden reacting outwardly. Líadan traded a glance with Malcolm, who only had a shrug and a look of frustration to offer, but that much told her that he was hearing the same as she was. The only thing they could do was ignore it, for it wouldn’t stop until they killed Corypheus.

“Entirely out of curiosity,” said Marian, fully ignorant of the internal debates each Warden was having with the ancient magister, “how many seals are there?”

Malcolm frowned. “I’m not sure.”

“It isn’t in your little journal?”

“No. There’s some stick figures running away from a dragon, though. I think Hildur got bored.”

Líadan gave him a warm smile, grateful for whatever humor they could find in such tense conditions. “You’re misremembering. It was you who got bored.”

“Could you not have paid more attention?” asked Sebastian. “Perhaps if you had, we would know the exact number of seals to expect.”

From her place standing behind Sebastian, but facing Marian, Bethany rolled her eyes. “I did pay attention, _brother_. The Warden-Commander didn’t know how many there were. No one knows, except maybe my father. Shall we try to conjure him up?”

Marian did a poor job of hiding her laugh. “Bit snippy, are we?”

“I’m sorry. It’s just—Corypheus is more annoying than Carver. I’m looking forward to killing him just so he’ll shut up.”

“You mean me or the magister?” asked Carver.

“We’ll have to see.”

By the second seal, Malcolm had switched to actively complaining during the battle. Líadan knew she shouldn’t be amused—they were fighting a pride demon, after all—but Malcolm hadn’t gone on like this in a long time. He hadn’t really had the opportunity, none of them had. Even their trips in the Deep Roads only contained short skirmishes, which hardly approached the level of fighting they’d done during and immediately after the Blight. With a team as large as they had with them now, and the skill amongst them, even the pride demons posed less a threat than usual. Not that they could afford to be distracted, because that tended to lead to painful injury and mocking from the others.

“I don’t want to fight anymore pride demons,” Malcolm said as he ducked the demon’s swinging fist. “Why’d they have to put pride demons in the seals? Horrible idea.”

“As was imprisoning the magister instead of killing him,” said Fenris. 

“Would you rather fight dragons?” asked Varric.

Marian rolled underneath a spirit bolt the demon sent her way, and then briefly looked at Varric. “What kind of dragon are we talking?”

“High dragon.”

“Archdemon?” asked Malcolm. “Because they cheat. Spirit fire instead of regular fire.”

“No, just a regular high dragon for—Blondie and Sunshine! Watch out, demon looks like it’s going to do something nasty to your magic.”

Malcolm covered his head with his shield and drew the demon’s full attention. At the same time, Marian motioned for Sigrun to run and then use her back to leap up to the demon’s head.

“Dragon,” said Marian as she straightened. “So much a dragon.”

Sigrun slammed both her axes into the demon’s head, and remained standing on top of it as it fell over. Then she jumped off and preened at her show of dexterity. Fenris gave her a nod of respect, while Anders pretended to clap in appreciation. No Justice there, Líadan noticed. Very much the old Anders, as if he were determined to prove Justice didn’t have control. It almost worked.

“You worry me, you know that?” Carver said to Marian.

“Only the blessings of the Maker have thus far kept her from harm,” said Sebastian.

Marian grinned. “And hiding behind pillars while being chased by an arishok.”

“That’s not how Varric tells it,” said Carver.

“Right, because we believe Varric’s version of any story.”

“Hey, you never know,” said Varric. “Some people get drawn into it. Might come in handy someday.”

Anders halted mid-step toward the next doorway, and his hands slapped over his ears as his face scrunched in pain. “Stop! Just make him stop talking! Make him stop!”

“And here I thought you loved my stories!”

His eyes still squeezed shut, Anders shook his head. He kept talking in a mumble that wasn’t audible to the humans and dwarves in the group, but Líadan could hear it easily. _I must hold against them. I must hold against them both_. 

Fenris’ dark brows drew into a deeper scowl, and then he gave Líadan a questioning look. She shrugged, unsure which unasked question of many he wanted answered. He threw another caustic look at Anders before stepping quickly to stand next to Líadan. “The abomination,” he said quietly to her. “Is he safe?”

She wanted to say yes. This was Anders they were talking about, a man who’d saved her life quite a few times, a man who’d once been a very good friend, one whom she’d trusted with her child’s life. But this wasn’t him. It hadn’t been Anders who’d lost his temper and threatened Malcolm earlier, on the bridge. It had been Justice, just as it had been Justice who’d taken over the conversation she’d had with Anders while they were on watch. “I don’t know,” she said to Fenris.

“Neither do I. He’ll kill us all if he allows his insanity to take him.”

“If that happens, I think there are enough of us to stop him.”

“We should be so lucky.” Then Fenris fell silent, his gaze not shifting from Anders.

Líadan sighed and moved ahead to walk with Malcolm as they left the broken seal and the dead pride demon behind. Sigrun had already trotted past them to scout for traps, and Líadan could hear the rest of the group trudging along behind them. One set of boots picked up the pace, and soon enough, Varric appeared next to them.

When the two Wardens gave Varric a questioning look, he held up his hands in a gesture of innocence. “Just pretend I’m not here. I won’t even take notes.”

For a long while, silence prevailed over the slog downward into the prison. They passed through hallways long abandoned, riddled with cobwebs and scurrying creatures. They traversed bridges that clung precariously to their anchors, and then found themselves at what they assumed was the bottom floor—the ground had changed from paved stone to rocks and dirt, and they met with the first appearance of deepstalkers. No one had missed them, not in the least. With their trip now really resembling the Deep Roads, the walk became even more drudgery. 

All of them could hear Anders’ muttering, and it wove a thread of fear that slowly pierced each one of them, pulling taut as they waited for him to snap, and them with it.

“So is Fenris going to kill Anders?” Malcolm asked Líadan after another one of Anders’ comments. “I assume that’s what he was telling you earlier. You know, fair warning and all that.”

“Not sure. He’s not sure if he is, and I’m not sure if he is. But it isn’t like we can keep ignoring it.”

“Not with him going on like he is we can’t.” 

“We’ll get Blondie through it,” said Varric. “We’ve always talked him down before, and we can do it again. Justice isn’t entirely unreachable. He’s been appearing a lot more, but it’s nothing we can’t handle. If—” Varric’s eyes flicked toward Malcolm’s drawn sword, which Malcolm had been keeping half-ready at his side. “Princeling, did you know your sword glows even when you’re not fighting? That’s kind of cool.”

Malcolm glanced down and swore. “The runes glow when there are darkspawn nearby.”

“Not as cool.” Varric hefted his crossbow to indicate his readiness. The rest took their cue from him, as well as further ones from Malcolm raising his sword and shield and Líadan slowing slightly as she nocked an arrow. Then she and Varric lagged behind enough so that Malcolm could cover them should the darkspawn attack from the front.

Except Líadan couldn’t feel a darkspawn. Well, she could sense a _lot_ of darkspawn, but only as a big group writhing around and above and below them. Compared to the increasingly loud voice of Corypheus as he called to the Wardens, the taint lurking with the darkspawn was of little consequence. The ancient magister seemed determined to make her and her fellow Wardens do what he commanded, which was free him and decidedly not kill him. Disobeying him held a lot more precedence over killing some common darkspawn.

She saw no compelling reason to free Corypheus. Fenris was right—the Wardens should’ve killed Corypheus when they’d discovered him. Maybe the taint granted by the Joining had been different then, allowing Corypheus to influence the Wardens’ decisions more. He certainly didn’t have hold over her and the other Wardens with them today.

_You are stronger than I thought, tiny insect. The time will soon come when you_ will _obey me_.

Too bad for Corypheus, obedience had never been her strong point. If anything, it seemed like the early Wardens would’ve killed Corypheus due to his commentary alone. Creators, he was persistent.

“You know,” Malcolm said without looking back, “he’s really starting to annoy me.”

“There’s no need to get personal,” said Varric.

“Not you. Corypheus.”

“Wait, so you’re all hearing the same as Blondie?”

“Yes,” said Líadan, still searching for the darkspawn Malcolm’s sword insisted were present. “Each seal we break, he gets louder. It’s irritating.”

“You think Justice is why Blondie’s having a hard time of it?”

“That’s my guess,” said Malcolm.

The conversation faded to Líadan as she felt the presence of darkspawn separating from the diffuse mass around them. After a moment spent staring into the ruins beyond the path Sigrun had picked out for them, she started toward the supposed darkspawn. She hadn’t taken more than two steps before Anders began to yell.

“You shouldn’t go that way!”

She spun to face him. “Since when do Wardens run away from darkspawn? We hunt them, Anders.” She pointed toward a short set of steps carved into a ruined rotunda located a middling distance from the main path. “There are darkspawn over there. I’m going to go kill them, and I’d prefer it if other Wardens came with me. You can stay here if you want, for all I care.”

He met her gaze, his eyes dim with mourning before she saw the flash of blue, and then his hands clutched at his head. The muttering began again, Anders ignoring the world outside him as he wrestled with two demons within. 

“I will stay here with him while the rest of you investigate, for even Andraste tells us to help the sick and infirm,” said Sebastian. “I will not allow him to come to harm.”

Bethany took a step in the direction of the ruin, then bit her lip as she stopped to look back at Anders. Empathy overrode her indecision, and she returned to stand with Sebastian and Anders. “I’ll stay here, too. If Anders can’t fight, then we can’t leave Sebastian without a Warden between him and the darkspawn.”

“Bethany, I’m perfectly able to—”

“No one doubts your skill, my dear royal archer,” said Marian. “However, you continuing to not catch the blight sickness is something I’ve an invested interest in. The more Wardens between you—or any of us—and the darkspawn, the better.”

Unaccompanied by further warnings from Anders, Líadan continued toward the elusive darkspawn. As she got closer, she sensed very few, three at most, but that didn’t alleviate her trepidation as she ascended the crumbling steps into the rotunda. As soon as she stepped inside, she jerked to a halt, staring at a statue of a kind she’d only seen once before, on Sundermount. She’d touched it and heard the voice of a lonely spirit, and it had only been Sten’s actions that had saved her from an ugly fate. Anders had taken that fate upon himself later, when he’d visited on his own and taken in Justice.

She still wasn’t entirely convinced that Justice and the lonely spirit weren’t one in the same. Now she stared at another of the statues, and strangely wondered if it contained another terribly lonely spirit.

“Holy shit,” Malcolm said from behind her. “That’s—”

“It is an altar dedicated to Dumat,” said Fenris, as he and the others walked in around Líadan, who remained still as a rock within a flowing stream. “It should be destroyed before we move on.”

“I’m for it,” said Marian.

“But if that’s Dumat, why doesn’t he look like a dragon?” asked Malcolm. He’d stayed behind to stand next to Líadan, his steady presence helping in defeating the memories plaguing her.

“It’s not like any of us are going to know,” said Carver. “Except maybe Fenris.”

Fenris advanced on the altar, his two-hander already out and ready, as if a mere sword could destroy stone. “Slaves are not informed of such things.”

Malcolm heaved an overly-dramatic sigh. “And here I was, hoping you had all the answers.”

“Hope will only bring you bitterness. You have lived long enough in this world that you should know this.”

“You had to think long and hard about his nickname, didn’t you?” Malcolm asked Varric. “Surely it didn’t just leap out at you.”

Varric chuckled. “Broody named himself, just like the rest of you did, even if you didn’t know it.” Then his mirth turned to seriousness as he looked in Líadan’s direction. “Princess looks like she’s seen a ghost, though.”

“In a way,” she said. “It’s a long story.” And it wasn’t one she was sure she wanted to tell, not with how it involved Anders and his current struggle. One or more of their party might get overzealous, particularly the templar. Whatever loyalties Carver might have to his sister, he was still a templar, and Anders wasn’t a relative. In addition to Carver, there was Fenris, who had already clearly expressed his desire to end Anders’ threat. While Líadan didn’t disagree that Anders—Justice—was slowly becoming more of an overt threat, she didn’t feel he yet warranted the immediate action some of the others would want to take if they knew what had happened on Sundermount.

“I’m a story kind of guy,” said Varric.

“And when I’m ready to tell it, I’ll let you know.” Her words weren’t said unkindly, and she gave him a soft smile to reassure him that there weren’t any hard feelings. 

He nodded. “When that day comes, you can have all the drinks you want on my tab at the Hanged Man.”

“You have a deal.” The scene around her became sharper, now freed from the haze of memory, and she could still sense darkspawn. She frowned and glanced around them, ignoring the altar. 

“I feel it, too,” said Malcolm. His sword hadn’t stopped glowing. “Sigrun, you want to help Fenris destroy the monstrosity? The rest of us can poke around outside before this elusive darkspawn raiding party drives us mad.”

“Already driven Anders there,” Carver said as they headed down the steps.

“Corypheus is driving him mad.” Marian gave her brother a friendly slug in the shoulder. “Not random darkspawn. Possibly Justice. I’m willing to accept that as an explanation.”

“It is the call of Corypheus that compels him, and his struggle against it that sends him to madness.” The voice came from beyond a half-fallen wall, but Líadan knew who it was before he even moved into view. Malcolm’s sword flared as Riordan became visible, looking no better than he had the first time they’d encountered him here. “His calls grow stronger as you break the seals. His commands harder to ignore. We cannot hide from him. He feels us walk where no step goes.”

“What does that even mean?” Marian asked no one in particular.

“It means he must be killed. If you do not, he will not stop, and darkness will cover everything. The corruption will take everything. All will do his bidding. You will end up as I have, wandering for years in the darkness, searching for a light that will set you free.”

Líadan wanted to take a step toward him, but the fear of what Riordan had become, the reality of what had happened when he’d left them—when they’d let him go—rooted her in place. “Riordan—”

“I am not him. Not any longer. All I know is that you must kill him, before…” In slow, jerky movements, Riordan looked upward, toward something in the distance that no one else was privy to see. Then his milky eyes widened, and he bolted, melting into the shadows as easily as a Dalish hunter.

She swore. So many years in the darkness, and Riordan kept returning, and they kept letting him go. But even if they caught him, he was so far into the shadows that there would be no return.

“Seriously? You let him go again?” asked Carver. “No wonder the Wardens never get anything done, letting ghouls like that just run off to terrorize whoever they like.”

Malcolm rounded on him, a deeper anger than mere irritation marring his features. “Don’t you even think about talking to me about dealing with ghouls. Not until you’ve been left to deal with an entire village of them. Not until you’ve had go back through a town you’d seen a week prior, full of living people, to search for whatever the darkspawn might have left behind.”

“Survivors, you mean,” said Carver. “Not that hard.”

“Darkspawn don’t leave survivors.”

“Sure they do, just—”

“Darkspawn don’t leave survivors in a town so blighted that the ground is black with corruption, where the very air is permeated with the taint that will kill you with blight sickness.” Malcolm had tensed, his anger too visceral for mere frustration with Carver. It was something that stemmed from the Blight that rushed up and out, and Carver had unwittingly invited it. “You might find people who appear alive, who you think are living and breathing, but they’re already dead. They just don’t know it yet, and neither do you, because you aren’t a Warden.”

“Look, Warden or not, I was at Ostagar. They showed ghouls to the army. I fought darkspawn. I fought my way from the massacre all the way to my family in Lothering before we escaped to Kirkwall. Just because I’m a templar and not a Warden doesn’t mean I haven’t killed my share of darkspawn, or that I haven’t seen my share of ghouls.”

Malcolm, who’d seemed ready to entirely unleash his full opinion as Carver kept talking, opted to stare, instead.

“What?” asked Carver. 

“Lothering, you said? You’re from Lothering?”

“You mean I hadn’t told you the story?” Varric asked as he wandered between them, presumably to break up the argument, but they’d already done it themselves. “I could’ve sworn I had. One of my best ones, really, their daring escape from the darkspawn sack of Lothering, journeying to Gwaren and finding passage on a ship to Kirkwall. There was even a dragon.”

Malcolm shot Marian a questioning look. 

“He’s telling the truth about that one,” she said.

Then Malcolm smiled at Carver and Marian, seemingly thoroughly happy, his anger forgotten, and no one other than him having any clue as to why. “That’s fantastic,” he said to them. “I never thought…” He shook his head, hint of a self-satisfied smile pulling at the edges of his mouth. “Good.”

Varric craned his neck to look up at Malcolm. “Are you cracking up like Blondie?”

“Nope. Very sane.”

“You aren’t going to explain it, are you?”

“Not right _now_. We’ve got darkspawn and an ancient magister to kill, don’t we?”

“Yes,” said Marian, drawing out the word. “And, speaking of killing and darkspawn, how is it the darkspawn haven’t killed that other Warden yet?”

The fleeting happiness disappeared from Malcolm’s face, and he cast a troubled look toward the shadows where Riordan had gone. Then he let out a long breath of air and started heading for the main path, where they’d left their other three companions. “I’ll tell you as we walk,” he said once the rest began to follow.

Líadan caught up to him as they wove through rocks and ruins. “Are you sure?”

He shrugged. “It isn’t like Anders hasn’t already told practically everything. No point in holding much back, now. It’ll just make it worse.”

She glanced back to make sure the others were far enough behind that they wouldn’t overhear a whisper. Satisfied that they were, she asked him, “Why that reaction to Lothering?”

“It’s an involved, awful story that also has some embarrassing parts concerning me.”

“It’s got me curious.”

“I’m sure it does. If you promise not to tease me about it, I might even tell it to you.”

“You ask so very much of me.”

He let out a soft chuckle, but they broke through the ruins and returned to the main path before he could reply. Sebastian caught sight of them, relief plain in his eyes. Anders was the same: crouching low to the ground, shoulders hunched over, his pallor pale and sickly, yet his eyes burned bright with the struggle going on in his head. 

“I can’t sense those darkspawn anymore,” Bethany said as they approached. She gave Anders’ arm a reassuring squeeze before she straightened and stood. “I take it you took care of them?”

“It was just one,” said Líadan. “Riordan.”

“Why would you call another Warden a darkspawn?” asked Marian. “I mean, I know he’s a far-gone ghoul, but I think darkspawn might be a tad much.”

Without consulting the others, Malcolm resumed their walk toward the separated tower section of the prison. “He might as well be one. That’s the answer to your question. Usually when darkspawn feel a Warden, they immediately try to kill them. But once the taint is bad enough, once you’re as far gone as he is, the darkspawn can’t sense you as a Warden anymore. They think you’re one of them, even more ‘one of them’ than a ghoul, and so they leave you alone. That’s why they haven’t killed Riordan.”

The first observation came from Carver. “That’s a pretty high price.”

“It is,” said Bethany. Then her eyes swept over the dank, likely tainted underground lake and the equally as dark and tainted surroundings. When her gaze returned to the ill-defined path ahead of them, it was distant. Like the other Wardens, she saw the fate that awaited her in the dark, in places much like this one. She tread on the ashes of her own pyre, even as she lived. “It is,” she said again, in a plaintive whisper drowned out by the crunch of dirt under her boots.


	7. Chapter 7

“‘Speak only the word; sing only the Chant.

Then the Golden City is thine,’ spoke Andraste.”

— _Chant of Light, Verse Unknown_

**Malcolm**

As they walked, silence clung to them like the green mist hugged the top of the murky underground lake. There was the scuff and scrape of boots on dirt and stone, thuds from staves used as walking sticks, the occasional unintelligible mutter from Anders, the creak of leather as gloved hands adjusted grips on swords. As they started up the tower, the mist dispersed, as did the quiet.

“That Warden, Riordan,” said Sebastian. “You knew him.”

It was a question hidden in a statement. The question wasn’t if they’d known Riordan—that was obviously true—but asking for an explanation of how. Malcolm played ignorant of the actual, but unasked, question.

“Yes, some of us did.” It failed to explain the complex relationship every Warden from the Blight had shared with the man. Even Wardens who’d served immediately post-Blight had been recipients of his sometimes underhanded, yet fair guidance. Riordan had been remarkably even-keeled, his calm temperament well suited to leading and teaching a group of rather young Wardens. Depending on the Warden, he’d been the teasing but wise elder brother, or a caring but demanding father figure. Losing him to his Calling had hurt them all, even though they’d known he needed peace from the nightmares, the corruption spreading through his skin and body, and the ceaseless call of the Old Gods. It was the knowledge that Riordan would gain his peace that gave the rest of the Wardens the ability to accept watching him part ways from them in the Deep Roads, knowing it was the last time they’d ever see him.

Except it hadn’t been.

Malcolm didn’t feel inclined to give Sebastian further information. Not because he didn’t feel like talking about it, but because Sebastian wouldn’t understand. He’d try, and while Malcolm knew the other man’s attempts at easing others’ pain were sincere, unless he was a Warden, he’d never truly understand in the deepest parts of his soul. And for that, Malcolm was grateful.

When it became obvious that none of the Wardens would provide more details, Sebastian cleared his throat, an attempt at dislodging a discomfort that refused to leave. “I am… sorry.”

“So are we,” said Líadan. 

Malcolm didn’t like how shaken she sounded, but there wasn’t much he could do in everyone else’s presence. She’d resent it, and he’d agree with her. The most he attempted was a reassuring look now and then. They’d been together long enough to recognize support, even if it was silent. Talking would come later, once the mission was done and they were safely on their way home.

Then again, the long trip up the tower’s stairs might kill him before they could even get that far. It felt like the Tower of Ishal, minus the adrenaline rush that’d propelled him and Alistair up the staircases with barely a hint of exhaustion. Back then, they’d had the pressure of armies relying on them, a half-brother who’d gone along with a misguided battle strategy, and the presence of countless darkspawn. Besides the seemingly endless number of stairs set within a tower, the only other point of commonality was the mass of darkspawn that teemed everywhere—so many that by the time they could sense a darkspawn, they were looking at it.

Which was how they were taken entirely by surprise when a massive genlock burst through an archway, an equally massive shield covered with spikes held in front of him. It bowled over Sigrun and then barreled into Sebastian, one of the spikes spearing him in the thigh before it flung him backwards. Malcolm shouted for Anders to help as Marian gasped, while Varric hurled particularly inventive insults at the darkspawn. Sigrun regained her footing as Malcolm got the genlock’s attention and drew it off. Unlike the archers, he had a shield to match the darkspawn’s—granted, it wasn’t nearly as massive—and stood a far better chance at blocking the spikes. 

As he pushed against the genlock’s shield, dents forming in his own dwarven-forged shield that he prayed would hold up to their legendary standards, he vaguely heard shouting from behind him. The words were hard to make out, and all he got was ‘I will’ and ‘controlled.’ But he wasn’t given long to think about it as the genlock redoubled its efforts, the renewed clash of shields sending prickles of sharp cold running through Malcolm’s arm and shoulder. If he insisted on continuing to go toe-to-toe with the huge genlock for much longer, they would go numb, and be in a lot more trouble. Another swing from the genlock’s shield brought its face so close that the cloying rot of its breath nearly knocked him down as effectively as a well-placed blow. It was close enough that Malcolm realized that he’d never noticed before that darkspawn did actually sweat.

“Down you go!” Sigrun said from above him, where she was perched on the genlock’s shoulders, her axes buried in each side of its neck. “You might want to move,” she said to Malcolm as the genlock tipped forward, shield sliding from its hands as it went through its death throes. “Also, I think there’s an emissary coming through. Felt magic. Made my skin itch. Can’t imagine what it’d do to you surfacers.” Then she continued riding on the genlock’s shoulders as it fell.

Malcolm was starting to suspect Sigrun was showing off. Not that he’d call her on it, since she’d saved their collective asses too many times to count on this trip alone.

He ran ahead, his steps resembling more a complicated dance than a sprint as he dealt with poorly-trained genlocks and hurlocks in turn. Some were taken out for him, either from Liadan’s arrows or Bethany’s magic. He had just enough help from the other Wardens that he wondered where Carver and Fenris were. In the battles prior to this one, they’d joined in once the skirmish had advanced this far. Unable to look behind him for fear of being blindsided, he shrugged it off, managing to clear the area between him and the archway by the time the emissary slipped through. He hit the emissary with a smite, the darkspawn’s eyes widening in true surprise as its magical attack sputtered and died. Then Malcolm knocked it to the ground with his shield before relieving it of the burden of being alive.

“Aw, you got to him before I did,” said Sigrun.

“Be faster next time,” he said to her. “Besides, you got the giant genlock.”

She glanced behind them, over the trail of darkspawn bodies they’d left between them and the ranged Wardens in the rear, and over to the shield-carrying genlock. “Since when did they grow them that big?”

“No idea. And if we had any hope of finding the broodmother that spawned them, I’d say we go kill it.”

“Justice! Bring back Anders!” Marian yelled.

“Shit.” Malcolm turned and ran for where the rest of their group was. Fenris and Carver were holding Anders—no, Justice, judging by the bright blue glow coming from Anders’ eyes and skin—barely restraining him from doing something probably awful. That also explained why they hadn’t advanced to help, since they’d been too busy controlling one of their own. Bethany crouched next to Sebastian, alternating between working on his wound and glancing back at Anders. 

“Your Warden abomination has ceded control,” Fenris said as soon as Malcolm made eye contact. “You see for yourself how he has broken.”

“I will not be controlled!” said Justice.

“You will when Carver’s sitting on you,” said Marian. “Now, Justice, give us our friend back. We’ll keep him from doing anything stupid.”

“If by stupid, you mean taking in a demon, you are too late,” said Fenris.

“We’ll kill him ourselves to keep him from Corypheus,” Líadan said. “Like we’d do for any Warden.”

Justice held her gaze for a long moment, and then Anders’ body sagged as the spirit retreated. Carver and Fenris let him go, each glowering as they stepped away, while Anders crumpled to the dirt-encrusted stone. “Thank you,” he said without looking up from his study of the ground. 

Líadan looked at him, almost sadly, yet did not move forward to console him as she would have done years ago, before Justice. “You can thank me by not making us do it.” Then she turned briefly to where Sebastian had landed and Bethany still worked on healing him. “You should go help Bethany. You’re the healer. Heal.”

“How’s it look?” Anders asked Bethany as he slowly approached her, Sebastian, and Varric.

“He nearly suffered moral wounds,” said Varric.

Marian frowned. “Don’t you mean mortal?”

“No, it’s Choir Boy. They’re moral.” Varric chuckled at his own joke as Marian rolled her eyes. 

Malcolm felt a bit gleeful—only a little—that Sebastian had suffered close to the same injury he had earlier, when Sebastian hadn’t warned him about the trap in time. “Maybe next time you’ll stay far enough behind Sigrun so you won’t get gored by a darkspawn shield,” he said to Sebastian. Granted, Malcolm hadn’t thought any darkspawn would be wielding a shield the size and design as the massive one that’d hit Sebastian, but still. Fair was fair. “I almost feel bad.”

“Really?” asked Varric.

“No.” He would’ve if Sebastian had been seriously wounded, but Anders didn’t have the scrunch of worry he got between his eyebrows when he faced something difficult to heal. It meant Sebastian would be fine.

“In the future, I shall endeavor to stay in my place behind a Warden scout.” Sebastian didn’t look up when he spoke, grimacing as Anders manipulated the wound into the right alignment for best healing.

“Did you let that genlock through?” Marian asked Malcolm.

He looked at her in askance, wondering if he should feel insulted. “Of course not. I said bite his leg off, not pummel him to pieces.”

She smiled. “Just checking.”

Anders’ magic dissipated, and he stood with a self-satisfied nod. “You’ll be fine. However, if we’re to fight an ancient magister with enough power to control a Warden’s thoughts, I believe we all should rest for more than a few minutes.”

“You’ll get no argument from me.” Sebastian carefully got to his feet, and then gave Anders a meaningful nod. “Thank you.”

Marian watched Sebastian shuffle off to find a clear piece of ground to sit on, concern pulling her brows together despite Anders’ pronouncement. Then she shook herself, as if dismissing worrisome thoughts, and looked at Malcolm. “So, why haven’t the rest of you lost it?”

“I’m sorry?” asked Malcolm.

“Corypheus. Why haven’t you or any of the other Wardens turned into a raving loony like Anders did? You can hear him, can’t you? If you’re all tainted, and Corypheus communicates through the taint, it stands to reason that you do.”

“We can hear him, sister,” said Bethany.

“Right! So, when can I expect the rest of you to turn on us?”

“I don’t think we will,” said Malcolm, wondering why he hadn’t picked up on the obvious answer before. Avernus’ augmented potion had to be why. Like it had practically banished the sentence of an early pyre, it seemed to also lessen the power of whatever call Corypheus possessed. So while Anders and others with the taint, like Riordan, felt compelled to answer, Malcolm and the others merely felt annoyed by Corypheus’ ceaseless nattering. “It’s to do with the difference in Joining potions. There’s an augmented one now, which lessens the nastier effects of being a Warden. It all still applies, but over a longer time period. Every Warden here except for Anders has had the augmented potion.”

“Did you not offer it to him any of the times you’ve been to Kirkwall?” asked Marian.

“They did,” said Anders. “I wasn’t sure how it would affect Justice, so I turned it down.”

“To your detriment,” said Fenris.

Anders didn’t back down. “I’ve done and not done many things to my detriment. You repeatedly pointing it out won’t change them.”

“No, it won’t.”

Bethany looked between Anders and Fenris, and then to her sister, wordlessly telling her to change the subject.

Marian caught the message. “I did notice that you Wardens managed the darkspawn well without our help,” she said to no one and everyone at the same time.

“Could be because it’s our job,” said Sigrun. “Killing darkspawn.”

Carver, who had been staring down the short corridor and into the larger room laden with darkspawn corpses, joined the conversation. “You’re a lot more efficient at it than I’d thought. I never saw the Wardens fight at Ostagar. They were up with the King, and we all know how that went.”

“Poorly.” Malcolm, finished with cleaning his sword and shield, settled on a broken wall and dug out his waterskin, along with the flatbread they’d cooked up the night before. “Well, unless you were one of the darkspawn. Then the battle went rather well, in retrospect. Killed the Wardens and the King in one fell swoop.” He took a large bite of the bread to avoid mentioning anything else involving swooping, because he really didn’t want to tell that story about Alistair, ever.

As soon as Malcolm had swallowed the bread, Carver asked, “Did you know him?”

“Him, who?”

“The King. Cailan, I mean. He was your brother.”

“Half-brother. And no, I didn’t know him. I just knew _of_ him.”

“But he must’ve known about you, to send you and Alistair up that tower instead of with the rest of the Wardens.”

“Yes, his one shining moment of intelligence pulled from a mind about as smart as a sack of hammers. If he really had been smart, he wouldn’t have been part of the lead charge, and definitely not with the sodding Wardens. We won’t even get into how poor of a plan the entire battle was, what with not knowing how many darkspawn there really were until it became astonishingly clear that there was no sodding end to them. No, my glory-blinded half-brother was too determined to become like the legends of old to take the idea that his army was absolutely screwed as a serious outcome.” He had more. He could honestly go on for hours, if ever given the chance, but Líadan had put a hand on his forearm, effectively reminding him that there was a time and a place for ranting about Cailan, and the present was definitely not either one.

“Whoa, don’t hold back or anything,” said Varric.

“Sorry, sore spot.” He took a swallow of water that’d long gone warm, but at least it wasn’t tainted. It was the little things.

“Really? I never would have guessed.”

Malcolm would’ve continued to chat with Varric, because it was admittedly fun, but duty summoned him to his feet. He did groan, already weary of fighting, if not in body, definitely in mind. He dropped his waterskin, put on his helm, and picked up his sword and shield on the way to standing. The other Wardens in the group were doing the same, food and water set aside in favor of weapons as they rose to meet the renewed darkspawn attack. Really, it was just like the Deep Roads.

“Company, I take it?” asked Varric.

“And not the good kind,” said Sigrun.

“Maker,” said Carver. “Do they ever stop?”

“No,” said Líadan. “Still up for clearing out the Deep Roads for us?”

He shook out his arms and grabbed his greatsword. “Let’s just pretend I never made any of those cracks.”

Bethany raised an eyebrow at him. “Who are you and what have you done with my brother?”

“I say we keep this version of Junior,” said Varric.

“Fine with me,” Malcolm said as he walked by them, the other Wardens following. The rest formed up, with Marian advancing forward enough to take up a spot just behind Malcolm, alongside Fenris and Carver. Apparently, they weren’t willing to let the Wardens take out the darkspawn by themselves this time. But by then, feeling the individual tainted bodies approaching them, Malcolm had realized they weren’t actually darkspawn, not unless darkspawn had changed significantly. While he didn’t relax his guard, he didn’t feel as compelled to remind the non-Wardens to stand back.

Four Grey Wardens stepped through the archway, a smallish party for an extended trip in the Deep Roads. A mage had the lead, a human woman who looked to be close to Riordan’s age when he’d gone on his Calling. She also matched the description Hildur had given, though Hildur had left out the part about Janeka being angry. Then again, the Deep Roads could do that to a person. Sigrun had thus far proved to be the only exception.

The mage halted and narrowed her eyes. “What are you doing down here?”

“Looking for you, actually,” said Malcolm. He partly lowered his shield and relaxed his sword hand, but didn’t put his weapons away. Determined Wardens were often intractable, and he couldn’t be sure if Janeka had taken the altered Joining potion or not. For all he knew, it could’ve been Corypheus speaking through her. “So we could stop you from doing something stupid, like setting Corypheus free.”

She scowled. “It is not stupid. I’ve studied notes from the early Wardens, and they were wrong. Whatever your superiors have told you, Corypheus isn’t a threat—he’s our greatest opportunity. His magic can be harnessed, and I know how to do it.”

“Sure you do.”

“This is a chance I will not see squandered, especially not by a Warden so young in the Order. Either join me or run back to your Commander.”

He reminded himself not to let her digs get to him. He’d fought in a Blight, and she hadn’t. “Nope, we’ve got other things to do down here, like killing Corypheus. Besides, no one deals with darkspawn. I bet you can guess why.”

Janeka didn’t bother hiding her snarl of frustration. “It isn’t—”

“Because it’s stupid,” said Malcolm.

She massaged her forehead with her fingers before trying another method of persuasion. “Perhaps you need to gain some perspective. Harnessing Corypheus could mean an end to Blights. An end! How many died in Ferelden alone?”

“Lots.” Malcolm did his best not to take her comments personally. She couldn’t know he and Líadan had fought in the last Blight. Easily rectified. “I know this because I saw a lot of them, which gives me a pretty good reason for not even attempting to make a deal with any darkspawn. Because they’re darkspawn.”

Janeka tightened her grip on her stave. “You claim to have fought in the Blight? Do not think me foolish.” 

“Too late,” said Marian.

She went ignored. “I am not going into this blind. I have a spell that can bind Corypheus to my will.”

Anders laughed. “Right, and I’ve got a bridge to Kinloch Hold to sell you.”

“They rebuilt it, actually,” Sigrun said. “I saw it when I was out there with Hildur. Nice bridge.”

“I do not have time for your frivolities,” said Janeka. “If you seek hinder us, if you seek to kill Corypheus, we will not hesitate to kill you.”

Behind her, the other three Wardens were readying weapons, and Malcolm heard the people behind him doing the same. He smiled and raised his sword and shield. “I’m all about the hindering.”

“Princeling! You couldn’t even consult the rest of us?” asked Varric.

“When did you become a Warden?” asked Líadan. 

“Point taken.”

“The magister must die,” said Fenris.

“I agree,” said Carver.

Malcolm knocked his sword into his shield, indicating his readiness. “Come on, then,” he said to Janeka. “We haven’t got all day. Magisters to kill and all.”

“ _Creators_ ,” Líadan said under her breath. “They’re Wardens, not bandits, in case you forgot. Not easy to fight.”

It wasn’t even partway through the fight when Malcolm was ready to concede Líadan’s point. He’d never really fought other Wardens outside the sparring ring, and hadn’t really comprehended how _hard_ they were to defeat, especially veterans like their opponents. Like him and his fellow friendly Wardens, they never seemed to wear down, every hit jarred barely less than a Qunari, and the magic nipped and stung. He’d lost count of the number of arrows he’d deflected. The sneaky fellow had scared the daylights out of him when he’d disappeared and reappeared out of _nowhere_. His shoulder ached from the blows he’d blocked from the burly Warden’s two-handed war hammer. An arrow hit Carver on the inner portion of his elbow, piercing just far enough into the brigandine that it hit flesh. Even though it’d been shallow enough a hit that Carver literally shook the arrow from his arm, he hadn’t stopped bitching about it. At least Sigrun and Varric’s cursing had more merit—they kept getting tripped up by the darkspawn bodies from the earlier skirmish.

Malcolm also discovered that Warden mages regenerated their mana a lot faster than darkspawn emissaries. The only person he’d ever witnessed replenishing their mana quicker than Janeka had to be Morrigan. Though, Bethany looked more than a little ragged, which to Malcolm pointed more toward Janeka having stolen mana rather than drawing on the Fade, herself. Either way, he went to smite her again, only to get bashed in the face by the hilt of a dagger the moment he opened his arms. While the blow didn’t do much damage, thanks to his helm, it did send him stumbling backward, his shield thrown up in front of him. Sigrun rolled under the other Warden’s guard and hamstringed him as he advanced on Malcolm. 

When he started swatting at the nuisance as his legs buckled from under him, two separate arrows and a crossbow bolt hit him, putting him down for good.

“That’s one!” shouted Varric.

“I will not allow another.” Janeka had already jammed a dagger through her palm before she spoke, and her spell was cast before the others even realized she’d used blood magic. Then it didn’t matter as much that she had, because she’d called on the help of four revenants to replace the lone Warden of hers they’d managed to take down.

It seemed more than a little unfair.

“This would be the bad side of blood magic,” Malcolm said after he managed to smite one of them. He wondered if he should just run up and smack one of the others with his shield right when it put down its sword. It’d be in the middle of casting, so he’d stand a chance.

“There’s a good side?” asked Anders.

“Daisy,” said Varric.

Fenris leapt forward and relieved the first revenant of its head, which left three more revenants, plus the other three Wardens.

“Go ahead,” Malcolm said over his shoulder as he edged toward one of the revenants. “Argue with that one. I dare you.”

“Right, antagonize the abomination,” said Marian. “Do you have a death wish?”

“Not anymore. Haven’t for years.” They’d been some good years, admittedly. He was happy enough to have lived to experience them.

“But you had one?”

“I got better.”

“How?”

Malcolm fended off a rather quick swing from the burly Warden, which sent him wildly off his chosen course of dealing with a revenant. “Riordan, coincidentally. Knocked some sense into my bleak, addled head during the Blight.”

“Literally?” asked Varric.

He shrugged. “Close enough.”

“Princess,” Varric said to Líadan, “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but there’s something seriously wrong with your husband’s head.”

“I’ve been saying that for years,” she replied. 

“Just once, a little solidarity would be nice,” said Malcolm.

He was pretty sure he could hear the smile in her tone, even though he couldn’t see to confirm it. “There was,” she said. “I had solidarity with Varric. He’s very astute, you know.”

“Are you heroes of the Blight? Truly?” Janeka shouted over to them from where she’d taken up casting near a wall.

“You’ve got two of them standing—well, Princeling is ducking at the moment—right here,” said Varric. “Why? You have a change of heart?”

“Possibly. If two who have recently fought an archdemon and won believe Corypheus offers no hope that he could provide the means to an end of Blights, then perhaps I am not as certain as I once was.”

Malcolm, who was currently shoving all his weight into his shield, which was subsequently pushing against a revenant’s shield, which was surprisingly stable and not going anywhere anytime soon, felt like the others could stop their chatting and get around to some sort of peace accord, even though she’d capitulated suspiciously fast. “Feel free to call off your revenants,” he said to them. “Sooner the better.” He glanced over at Janeka long enough to see her signal her remaining Wardens, and they turned their fight onto the revenants.

Energy ripped apart the very air, and Malcolm turned just enough to see Justice’s blue light shining from Anders’ eyes. For once, Malcolm didn’t object, because Justice could deal some serious damage to the revenants, more than Anders could—more than any of them put together, really.

Except that Justice didn’t go after the revenants, even as they continued to pummel members of their party.

“You will not be allowed to betray us!” Justice declared, and then slammed magic into Janeka’s chest, its momentum alone throwing her into the wall at her back, while the magic itself crackled through her body until she slumped lifelessly to the ground. “Your blood magic will do evil no longer.”

The only upside to Justice’s interference was Fenris killing one of the revenants while it was distracted by Justice.

“I think we’ve a problem with your abomination,” said one of Janeka’s Wardens.

“Heroes of the Blight or not, after that, I’m ripping out your friend’s innards,” said the other. “Janeka and I had the same Joining.”

“Shit,” said Marian.

At the same time, Carver said, “Feel free. It’ll save us the effort.” 

Even with Janeka and two of the revenants gone, the fight got nastier. Unless they were using a ranged weapon, the moment any of them took their attention away from the revenants to fend off one of Janeka’s Wardens, one or both of the revenants used their incredibly strong pull ability. Malcolm managed to save himself by grabbing onto the archer Warden’s leg, and then only narrowly avoided losing a hand by rolling toward Justice. Fenris blurred in and out of reach, while Marian anchored herself to Carver. 

“You know, Blondie,” Varric said as he dodged the burly Warden’s sword, “when you get the chance to avoid a fight with Grey Wardens, most people take it, because they’re really hard to kill. I don’t even have to make up those parts of my stories.”

“They aided a blood mage. They could be her thralls. They must not be allowed to further the blood mage’s agenda.”

“Her agenda was to _help_ us,” said Malcolm.

“Her turnaround could not be trusted.”

“So you’ll do what? Kill all those you believe are unjust and leave the Maker to sort them out?”

“Yes.”

“Do you even realize how shortsighted that is?”

“Argue later,” said Líadan. 

One revenant caught the burly Warden unawares, and used his shield to crush his chest once he dragged him close enough. It seemed to feed on the kill, its next pull twice as strong as any of the ones before it. Sebastian dodged an arrow from Janeka’s lone remaining Warden, who was practically hugging the walls of the room. His dodge made him bump into Bethany, who tumbled forward into the revenant’s draw. It pulled her into the range of its weapons before anyone could react fast enough, hitting her legs with its heavy shield as she stabbed any part of the revenant she could reach with the bladed end of her stave. While that revenant wore down and started to topple, the other moved to take the advantage.

“Bethany!” Both Marian and Carver bolted forward to help their sister. Carver cleaved the wandering revenant in two on his way to free his twin. When the last of Janeka’s Wardens turned to see what was going on, Fenris ghosted over and quickly dispatched him.

“Begone from this realm!” As Justice bore down on the last revenant, it looked up in alarm, abandoning its bludgeoning of Bethany in favor of meeting the other Fade spirit head-on. Their magic crashed together, the crackle tingling through Malcolm’s teeth. It wasn’t the warm magic felt from Bethany, or the sharp magic that Marian used, nor was it the rough magic Líadan occasionally summoned, for none of them felt unsettling. There was something wrong with the magic arcing across the room, unbalanced and dangerous. 

As the two Fade spirits trapped in the mortal realm fought, Marian and Carver dragged Bethany to the opposite side of the room, with Sebastian constantly apologizing for knocking her down, even as he shot arrows at the revenant. Fenris had fallen slack against the wall, his lyrium brands blazing so brightly they almost burned. 

The revenant bowed under the weight of Justice’s attack, and his fate was sealed once arrows and bolts continued to find gaps in his armor, and Malcolm’s sword and Sigrun’s axes sliced through what was left. It tumbled over and then disappeared, leaving only its armor and the scent of burned lyrium behind.

But Justice didn’t leave. He stood in the middle of the room, glowing and useless, while Bethany grimaced her way through the pain from her mangled legs, while Fenris couldn’t seem to muster up enough energy to even stand, while everyone else had cuts and scratches and bruises and punctures that drained them, little by little. Sodding Justice, who’d decided without anyone else’s input that they should fight everything instead of accepting allies where they could find them, no matter that they used blood magic or whatever else Justice deemed unworthy. Meanwhile, the longer he stood there, all mighty and powerful and righteous in his justice, the more the rest of them suffered.

“Justice,” said Malcolm, “can you heal?”

Varric snorted. “Now _that’s_ a question.”

“I cannot,” said Justice.

“Would you mind giving us Anders back, then? Because, in case you forgot, he can heal, unlike you. And since you’re the one who made us fight the other Wardens, the least you can do is let the healer heal our wounds.”

“That… would be just.” The Fade’s light vanished from the room, leaving Anders in control of his body once more. “Malcolm, could you please stop mouthing off to the easily irritated spirit? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he doesn’t like you.”

“I don’t like him, either.”

Anders sighed as he went to help Bethany. “How are your legs?” he asked as he knelt beside her.

“Not as crushed as I thought they’d be,” she said, sounding in far better spirits than anyone could have expected.

“I’ll get them un-crushed as soon as I can, then.” Anders went to work, and if he noticed the glowers sent his way from Carver and Fenris, he didn’t acknowledge them. Once he was done, they all rested for a while, regaining whatever energy they’d lost in the successive battles, and Bethany tested the soundness of her freshly-healed legs. On one trip around the room, she snatched up her stave from near the revenant’s armor, and then kicked its helm across the room for good measure.

Malcolm chuckled at the satisfied expression on Bethany’s face, and then Marian’s comment about Anders having done a fine healing job judging by the strength of the kick. With Bethany up and sure-footed once more, they were ready to continue onward and get the mission done and over with. Sigrun led the group, with Sebastian following a decent distance behind her. Marian brought up the rear, taking advantage of the opportunity to speak with Anders. Malcolm, who’d been trailing the pack as he checked over the room one last time, saw Marian push Anders against the wall. The amusement that’d shown on her face earlier was entirely gone, replaced by a cold, determined anger. 

“You tell Justice, right now, that if he pops out again today, I’ll kill him. Unless we’re in dire need of his particular abilities—and one of us will let you know when and if that occurs—he needs to let you stay in control. _You_ need to stay in control. We need our friend, the healer. Not some Fade spirit who gives approximately no shits about our lives.”

“He does, actually,” Anders said quietly. “Why do you think he hasn’t killed Merrill, even though she’s a blood mage? Why do you think he helped in the Fade? Even as misguided as he was, what do you think drove him to kill Janeka? He wasn’t just protecting himself or the world at large—he was protecting his friends. The problem is that he goes beyond that once he’s out, turning from Justice to Vengeance, and it gets… bloody, afterwards.”

Marian shoved him one last time, unmoved by Anders’ explanation. “Keep him contained, Anders. I don’t want to kill you or run you off. I don’t.” Then she spun on her heel and stalked away to catch up with the others. 

Anders sighed and followed, raising an eyebrow at Malcolm as he approached. Then the two of them took the rear guard together. “She doesn’t believe me,” Anders said after a few steps.

“In her position, would you?”

“No, of course not. But it isn’t exactly fun from my point of view. Everyone’s acting like they’ve lost their friend, while all along, I’m standing right here.”

“The problem is that the person standing there isn’t always you. And while I can see Justice also viewing us as friends, he’s like a normally nice friend who turns nasty and violent when he’s drinking, except we can’t see the drinking, so we never know who to expect.”

“And the whole time, I’m watching him be an utter ass, and I can’t do anything about it.”

“Either way, keep him under wraps. I don’t think Marian was kidding.”

“She wasn’t.” When he said it, Anders almost sounded relieved.

Nothing down in this Warden prison felt _right_. Nothing was as it seemed, Corypheus wouldn’t stop shouting about being able to control them—patently a lie, since they’d yet to fall under his control—Anders was losing himself, people had gotten hurt, they’d had to fight and kill other Wardens, and then there was Riordan.

He visited them again, stepping out of the deeper shadows as they exited at the top of the infernal tower, where the sky was finally visible. The lot of them scowled at realizing that night had fallen already, the moon high on the horizon, the chill of the wind welcome over the sweat and thirst from their journey up all those stairs. Beyond that, beyond the stolen day behind them, beyond the stolen death of a former mentor, beyond harsh breathing and cursing and tiredness so deep that none of them believed they’d find rest again, the call from the sarcophagus beyond the bridge in front of them howled. Every Warden stared at it, shocked at the strength of it, the loudness of it, and for those who had fought the Archdemon in the last Blight, how discordant it was.

The Archdemon’s call had possessed a certain amount of musicality. While alarming, actually hearing the call had never been unpleasant to the ears, as it were. The same did not apply to Corypheus. It didn’t help that he was also incredibly insulting, and if he called Malcolm a worm one more time, he’d kill him. He’d kill him even if he hadn’t been planning on it in the first place. Now that he could see the sarcophagus, Malcolm did feel the first hints of apprehension. It was easy enough not to think about the difficulty of their task when they weren’t directly faced with it. 

They were no longer afforded that option.

When he looked at Riordan, he could see no trace of the Warden he’d known. He couldn’t feel anything beyond darkspawn from him.

Which was exactly what he was. Malcolm straightened, realizing that Riordan wasn’t an ally, not like he’d been. Like Janeka, more than Janeka, he was being influenced by Corypheus. Riordan’s—the darkspawn’s—eyes widened in realization as Malcolm stared at him. Then the ghoul reached over, snatched the stave Marian had brought with her for breaking the seals, and bolted for the sarcophagus. Marian shouted and sprinted after him, sword out and cursing as she informed him that he’d stolen her father’s staff, and she’d be damned if she’d let him keep it.

The rest gave chase, barely noticing the bronze griffon statues as they ran across the ancient bridge, trying to ignore the scream that the calling had become. Inside the rotunda, Marian grappled with Riordan, the stave between them as they both refused to let go. Neither archer had the confidence of hitting a proper shot on Riordan, for the fight’s movement was too unpredictable. They twisted the stave between them and tried to fully wrestle its grip from the other. The struggle brought them closer to the sarcophagus, Marian cursing the entire way, and Riordan working with silent determination. A few steps from the sarcophagus, Riordan spun and let go, which sent Marian crashing into it. She managed to keep her head from smacking hard into the sarcophagus’ lid, but as she twisted to regain her feet and locate Riordan, her cheek and ear scraped along the stone.

Within seconds, where Riordan had gone became the least of their worries. He was a ghoul, not a magister. The true threat was in the opening sarcophagus.

As Marian tumbled down from it, the lid crumbled inward before the pieces were blown outward. The air from the blast knocked each of them to the ground. As they all got to their feet, bruises refreshed and aches awakened, what Malcolm assumed to be Corypheus literally rose out of the open sarcophagus. He looked familiar. He looked like the Architect, like Hildur had said he might. The Architect was an oddity of a darkspawn, powerful and sentient, yet stupid enough to wake an Old God and believe he wouldn’t taint him in the process. In the end, he’d started the Fifth Blight. 

From what Malcolm was starting to piece together, this particular magister had helped start the _First_ Blight.

“Be this some dream I wake from?” the magister asked as he regarded them with eyes that were both betrayed and menacing. The mere potential of his power throbbed in the air around them and turned the crisp night to stifling. And yet, his utter bewilderment was almost endearing.

“You’re a darkspawn,” Marian said to it as she hefted her sword. The stave had been passed off to Bethany. “Darkspawn. You spread the blight. Ring a bell?”

“And I thought you were bad,” Líadan said to Malcolm.

Bethany sighed. “Meet my sister.”

The magister’s cry of dismay as he raised his arms to the sky and beseeched Dumat helped further the believability of his almost tragic plight. “The city, it was supposed to be golden! It was supposed to be ours!” An arcane energy shield shimmered around Corypheus as he lamented at being cursed and abandoned.

It meant they had to wait.

It was ridiculous, really, and Malcolm knew that if he told the story to anyone other than someone who’d been here to see it, they wouldn’t believe him. He certainly wouldn’t.

“Is that the Architect?” Anders asked as Corypheus continued his railing.

“No, it’s not,” said Malcolm. “The Architect was creepy. This guy is irritating.”

Sigrun frowned. “I’m not sure. He’s almost like a lost puppy. Except a puppy that has acolytes and slaves.”

“That would be a Tevinter puppy,” said Anders.

“Or a mabari with the finest of pedigrees, maybe,” said Malcolm.

“Possibly the Orlesian Empress’s puppy,” said Marian. “I could see that.”

“How can you talk about puppies at a time like this?” asked Bethany.

Malcolm glanced between her and Corypheus, the true danger the magister presented not really having sunk in until they’d all felt what power the creature pulled from the Fade. “It’s what’s keeping me from crying and running away in sheer terror. I’m starting to wonder if the Wardens kept this guy sealed up for two thousand years instead of just killing him because they _couldn’t kill him_. And we’re going to have to kill him. Or try to.” He frowned at the rising fear. “I’m going to keep thinking about puppies.”

“Perhaps it would help to think of puppies as his weakness,” said Sebastian. “After all, the Maker’s light can only shine so far.”

“Choir Boy, did you just crack a joke?” asked Varric.

The arcane energy dissipated, and then Corypheus whipped around, the betrayal vanished, the confusion lifted, and he bore down on them. “I am an acolyte of Dumat. You cannot stop me. If I cannot be brought to the light with you, I will gain it through you!”

They ran, scattering to hide behind griffon statues and low walls as the magister rose higher in the air and formed a burning white ball of arcane energy between his hands. Malcolm had no idea what kind of magic it was, other than it would probably cause a great deal of pain if it hit any of them. He traded a look with Carver, who crouched behind a statue one bay over from where Malcolm hid with Líadan and Anders. The look communicated enough that they’d smite the bastard and take it from there. 

They did. They brought bolts of righteous spirit energy down from the sky, and the magister _laughed_ at them. “Dumat has granted me his powers, worms,” said Corypheus. “You cannot take them from me.”

“It seems Choir Boy might’ve been more right than he thought,” Varric called out from the bay to Malcolm’s right.

“Again,” Carver said to Malcolm. Then he shouted to Sebastian, “Use those fancy Andraste’s arrows that my sister picked up for you last month. Hopefully that gold wasn’t a waste.”

The smites hit Corypheus, and this time his shield flickered just long enough for Sebastian’s shot to hit the magister. Then the magical defense dropped entirely, forcing Corypheus to walk on the ground. Malcolm, Carver, Fenris, Marian, and Sigrun dashed from their hiding spots, swords and axes out. Arrows rushed through the air from Líadan and Sebastian. Some were plucked from flight by the magister’s weakened magic, others hit invisible barriers he’d put up, and a few managed to hit him. Corypheus flicked his wrist, and the earth burst from the ground, forming pillars directly in front of Malcolm and Carver. With no time to swerve, the pillars knocked them on their asses as the others continued onward. 

Sigrun leapt and got part of an axe into Corypheus’ back before she was tossed off. She curled up to absorb the impact and rolled away to recover after she hit the floor. Jaw clenched and eyes burning with a deep hatred Malcolm had never seen before in any mortal, Fenris marched right for the magister, with Marian directly behind him. Right as they both swung, Corypheus’ magic returned in full, and the arcane wall popped into existence. Its return flung Fenris and Marian nearly as far back as the earthen pillars that had stopped Malcolm and Carver. 

Then came the fire. The only sign of what was to happen was a faint glow on Corypheus’ palms, and then the entire room filled with flames. Swirling vortexes danced through the air, and the warriors caught out between the alcoves and the sarcophagus were forced to dance along with them or risk being burned. As it was, they couldn’t escape it entirely, the stones burning at the soles of their boots, the lashing tendrils of fire leaving long scorch marks on their armor as they darted away, the padding under their armor sodden with sweat leeched out by the rising heat.

Carver stopped behind one of the pillars that’d taken him and Malcolm out earlier, pausing just long enough to hit Corypheus with a Silence. While it wasn’t much, it was enough for the flames to gutter out, and the smites he and Malcolm immediately sent Corypheus’ way brought the shield down again. 

It went like that for a while, getting tiny hits on Corypheus, wearing him down so slowly that they wondered if they’d wear down first. It had been a long day, a long slog through a Deep Roads prison, and this magister seemed to be able to draw the entire Fade itself to fuel his spells. 

Bethany had managed to use a spell on Corypheus that had some degree of effect, something that slowed him down, and almost pulled him to where she wanted him. It proved a good distraction, but had the unfortunate side effect of drawing a lot of Corypheus’ attention. Carver played the shield, and Fenris along with him, keeping the majority of the magister’s attacks from hitting the less-armored mage. Malcolm kept himself between the other ranged fighters and the magister, in the event that Corypheus had a sudden change of heart in targets. Even then, things looked decidedly not good—enough that Malcolm started to question having been sent on the mission at all.

“Just in case we die,” said Líadan, who appeared to be having thoughts along the same lines as he was having, “I think Ava has the Gift.”

His chest constricted and his throat burned, and he wasn’t sure if it was from exhaustion, singeing from the flames, or what he’d just heard. “You’re telling me this _now_?”

“I didn’t want to believe it.”

Malcolm glanced over at her. Líadan’s concentration hadn’t wavered, and she was still sending arrows Corypheus’ way, to either harm him or to at least draw some of his ire from Bethany. Even Sebastian paused for an instant to give Líadan an incredulous look before he returned to his own bow. Malcolm shook his head and checked to make sure he was still in position to intercept Corypheus. “How exactly did you come into this magical knowledge?”

“Please don’t use puns like that ever again,” said Varric. “They don’t suit you.”

“Cáel had been tormenting her all day,” said Líadan. “It took her until evening, but she retaliated. Lost her temper and pushed him with a little extra… I’m sure it was lightning, in retrospect. She also may have lit his shoes on fire, but Cáel wouldn’t say either way, and disposed of the evidence.”

He grasped at the idea that she was trying to calm his mind by distracting him. “You’re serious?”

“If any time was a time to be serious, it’s now. So, yes.”

“I can’t believe you’re having this incredibly serious conversation _right now_ in the _middle of a battle_ ,” said Marian. “Even I have standards.”

“I’m just pissed that I can’t take notes,” said Varric.

Malcolm ignored them. “I honestly thought it would be Cáel.”

“I thought it would be both of them.”

“Could we concentrate more on the killing of the powerful darkspawn, please?” asked Anders.

“That must be Justice,” said Varric. “He never likes gossip.”

“I _am_ proud that she stood up to her brother, even if it was magic,” said Líadan.

“I’m surprised she didn’t pop him sooner,” said Malcolm. “I would’ve expected a fist, though. Maybe a good kick. That’ll teach him, I suppose. Maybe.” He thought about their son’s temperament, and changed his mind. “Eh, probably not.”

“Again,” said Anders, “I suggest we get back to killing the ancient magister.”

“Oh,” said Marian, drawing out the word as she did, “you sound like Fenris.”

Anders straightened in outrage, but kept his lean body behind a statue, even as he maintained healing auras around Bethany, Fenris, and Carver. “I did no—all right, that did sound like him.”

Bethany let loose a flurry of spells, one right after another, slowing Corypheus so much that he practically went still, then pulled him closer before using her magic to pick him up and slam him into the ground. 

“Oh! I like that one!” said Marian, who proceeded to use the same spell, bouncing Corypheus twice for good measure. Malcolm and Carver took the opportunity to throw more smites his way, even as Corypheus drew earth up around him in a ring, walling them out. Knowing they had the advantage, they ran for the earthen ring, only to find it empty.

“That’s cheating,” said Sigrun. “You can’t just disappear in the middle of combat.”

“You do it all the time,” said Líadan.

“Yeah, but mages aren’t supposed to. Like I said, cheating.”

A rumble sounded above them. Fog had gathered below the ceiling, churning as it transformed into the dark clouds of an impending storm. Hairs on any exposed skin stood on end as the air charged with the promise of lightning. A downdraft of chilled air swept over them, and crackling could be heard in the hidden depths of the clouds. 

“Hide,” said Anders. “Hide, now. Get under anything you can. If you’ve got a helm and are stupidly not wearing it, put it on. Either get cozy with Malcolm or get as close to me, Marian, or Bethany as you can. This’ll hurt, no two ways about it.” 

Corypheus laughed from where he’d appeared, hovering over his sarcophagus.

Hail plummeted from the clouds, hail in the form of icy spears, sending the group scrambling for cover. Malcolm held his shield over his head, the spears adding more dents to it, and it’d already taken a beating over the course of the day. Líadan kept close, and Sigrun squeezed in as much as she could. Marian threw out an arcane shield, as did Anders and Bethany. Fenris sprinted for Bethany’s shield, grimacing as one spear grazed his back. Another went through his heel, sending him sprawling before he could get to cover. Sebastian ran from Anders’ protection, the hail leaving pits and dents in his armor as he dragged Fenris into Anders’ shield. A spike went through the gap between Carver’s gorget and spaulder, ignoring the brigandine and driving into his shoulder as he tumbled into the safety of Marian’s arcane shield. Varric pulled Carver’s leg in before it could get pinned.

Marian swore as she bent to examine her brother’s wound. 

“I’m fine,” said Carver.

She rolled her eyes. “You’re so full of shit. Have you looked at your shoulder?”

“Rather not.”

Malcolm, Líadan, and Sigrun ducked into Bethany’s area of protection, breathing heavily. Though Malcolm’s back hurt where he’d been hit by hail, he was grateful that his armor had prevented him from being run through. He’d take bruises over being skewered any day. Marian had removed Carver’s helm in order to get a better look at him, and Carver’s skin was ashen. Anders couldn’t sustain his shield within Marian’s—Malcolm recalled a mage explaining to him that arcane shields touching could result in very bad things—but even the short gap between his and hers could mean grievous injury for the unarmored mage. The same went for Bethany, which meant neither of the mages with good healing skills could help Carver. Marian could heal, but hers would be more to stabilize with a wound like Carver had. They’d be lucky to get him patched up, much less get him able to summon a smite.

Marian paused her study of Carver’s injury to look over at Anders. “Hey, Anders?”

“Yes?”

“I think it would be all right if Justice came out to play with Corypheus. And by ‘play,’ I mean kill him.”

“He’s been suggesting the same.”

“Go for it,” she said. “Please.”

Anders walked as close to Marian as possible, and then Sebastian helped Fenris stand, Fenris leaning on him heavily in order to keep his heel off the ground, and the two of them covered the few short steps to Marian’s arcane shield. Fenris avoided further injury, but a spike of ice went through the brigandine of Sebastian’s unarmored arm. His jaw flexed as he gritted his teeth in pain, but impressively did not swear.

Once Anders’ shield was free of others, he started for Corypheus. The shimmering of the shield faded away, yet the ice spikes parted around him like a river would around a rock. The blue light from his eyes and skin flickered dangerously in the dim light of the conjured storm. “Enough,” he said, his voice rife with the power of Justice’s absolute confidence in what was right. “Your kind has done enough. You engaged in slavery. You engaged in blood magic. You engaged in the oppression of others. You desire to do the same again in this realm. I will not allow it.”

Corypheus stared at the upstart victim. “What god be you to declare such?”

“I am Justice.”

“Dumat—”

Corypheus never had a chance for a final appeal to his own patron god. Justice reached out, grabbed Corypheus’ foot and plucked him from above. He slowly dragged him to his level, ankle to knee, from knee to grasping his robes, and then held him by the neck in front of him. 

“Justice will not be denied.” Without looking, Justice snatched a spike of ice in mid-plunge, and then drove it up through Corypheus’ mouth and into his head before tossing him down like a sack of garbage.

The storm dissipated immediately, leaving a clear night with a nearly full moon outside the walls of the topmost room. Inside the mind of each Warden, the call fell silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two today. catching it up to the other fic I'm posting to keep update chapter numbers the same so I don't mix them up.


	8. Chapter 8

“What hath man’s sin wrought?”

— _Chant of Light, Verse Unknown_

**Malcolm**

Until it was gone, Malcolm hadn’t realized how much Corypheus’ call had been bothering him. It’d reached a dreadful crescendo right before the magister died, but by then it had become a rather loud background noise. Current circumstances aside, it was pleasant to be free of it. 

With the storm gone, healing could be done without fear, which meant Bethany dropped her arcane shield and ran for her brother. Though Fenris and Sebastian’s wounds were clearly painful, they didn’t possess the same danger as Carver’s did. However, it wasn’t like they only had one mage capable of healing.

They just had to get Anders back, yet Justice seemed to be reveling in his victory. Hesitant to engage him lest he lash out with leftover wrath, the others cast Justice wary looks as he stood over the sarcophagus. But they desperately needed another capable healer, because Marian wasn’t the greatest, and Líadan just plain could not heal. In an obvious attempt to be useful, Marian left Bethany to work on Carver, and then went to check on Fenris and Sebastian. 

After only a few minutes of trying to help the wounded, Marian handed the poultice to Sebastian and stood up. Then she walked right over to Justice. “Give Anders back.”

“There is more to be done in this realm.”

“Not right now. People are hurt. I know you saved them, but it won’t mean much if they’re permanently injured or die.”

“There are more important—”

“No, there aren’t!” The tip of her dagger pressed against Justice’s throat. “You either give Anders back to us, or I will put you down. I won’t say it twice.”

Anders slumped and tumbled to the ground. Justice had abandoned him so quickly that Anders wasn’t given time to gain full control of his legs. “I’m sorry he—”

Marian didn’t give him a chance to finish as she crouched to his level. “You don’t need to apologize. I asked you to let him come out, and it was my responsibility to deal with the consequences. And I did. Lucky for us, he listened, which means now we have our friend back, who also happens to be our best healer.”

He nodded and glanced around, assessing where he would be most needed. 

“Come help Carver,” Bethany said. “I can heal the others, but Carver will take some delicate work that you’re better with.”

The healers fixed up the wounded while the recovered and the mostly uninjured searched for any clues regarding Riordan’s fate. The taint remained below them, a mass of darkness and darkspawn, but Malcolm couldn’t feel anything separate from it that would signal Riordan. 

“This place is like a Nevarran mausoleum,” said Sebastian.

“Yet, it was built before there was a Nevarra,” said Bethany. 

Malcolm peeked over the edge of the supposed mausoleum, trying to see if maybe Riordan had jumped or fallen to his death. It was a futile effort, considering the distance to the ground, but they didn’t have many places to look. Searching for Riordan also gave him something to do other than consider what Líadan had told him during the battle. The one thing he didn’t feel was any animosity toward her for keeping it to herself for so long. If he were honest with himself, he’d have done the same. The threat had precipitously dangled over them for years, and while they’d been allowed to mostly ignore it for a time, the blissful quiet was clearly over. And he didn’t want to think about it, because if it were true, there wasn’t a solution that wouldn’t end up with pain. It would be a sodding mess and he desperately hoped it wouldn’t be true.

And he was thinking about it. Damn. 

If it _were_ true, they at least had the means to hide it for a while without it becoming dangerous. Bethany would certainly agree to helping Ava, as would Rhian, since they both had been raised as apostates, entirely free of the Chantry. They wouldn’t want to see the templars take her, either. Given what had happened with Connor during the Blight, Ava would have to be taught actual control, and not merely how to hide her magic. That particular route led to the magic festering until a demon could take easy advantage of it, and there was no way Malcolm would let a demon harm his child.

He would also not let his child harm others through a demon, but that was a possibility he never, _ever_ wanted to contemplate. 

No sign of Riordan jumped out at him. No blood on the stones, nothing. Occasionally, he heard whispers, almost like echoes from Corypheus. Remnants, he supposed, maybe like how ears rang after a loud explosion. 

Sigrun stepped up beside him, taking a look downward of her own. “I can take over this part,” she said quietly to Malcolm.

“I’ve got it,” he said.

“Except I know another Warden who probably isn’t thrilled about you teetering on the brink of a very long way down.”

And with the other anxieties that had been plaguing Líadan, it was no wonder that her fear of heights had been extended to him. “I’m an ass.”

Sigrun gave him a smile. “Happy to help.”

When Malcolm turned around, he saw that Marian had given up on aiding the healing, and while Anders was still working on Carver, Sebastian and Fenris were back on their feet. The three of them, along with Bethany, stood over Corypheus’ body, but not in triumph—more in confusion than anything. 

“What do you suppose we do with it?” asked Marian. 

“Darkspawn,” said Bethany. “We burn it.”

Marian gave her sister a sly grin. “Why do I think you’ll enjoy this part?”

“Only because he burned me enough times that he and I won’t be even until he’s less than ash.”

Anders sat back to rest as Carver tested out his arms in various forms. He rolled his eyes once at the young templar, and then joined the others in studying Corypheus. “You know, if he really is one of the ancient magisters, then I suppose the Chantry fable is more right than I thought.”

“Perhaps you mean to say that it’s not a fable?” asked Sebastian.

“I’m willing to go as far as not entirely a fable.”

“Take it,” said Marian. “You’ll get nothing better, and by the time we’re back in Kirkwall, it’ll be all fable to him again.”

Anders stared into the flames consuming Corypheus’ body. “This one might stick a while, given the very tangible evidence.”

Sebastian seemed troubled as the magister’s corpse continued to burn in front of them. “Do you think something should be said?” 

“Good riddance,” said Fenris. 

No one disagreed.

Then Fenris started for the bridge. When no one followed him, he asked, “Are we expecting to spend the night in this place? I would rather not.”

“Much as I agree with you, without any rest, I’m not sure we could survive another run through the entire prison just to get outside,” said Marian.

“We’ll do it the Legion way,” said Sigrun. “You find a couple decent rooms—because you never want to have the privy where you sleep—block all the entrances, keep a paired watch, get some rest, and move on in the morning.”

Malcolm frowned. “I thought the Legion had way stations.”

“It does, but we couldn’t always get to one. Sometimes it seemed we always marched right past them during the day, and then when we needed to bunk down, there’d be nothing in sight.” Sigrun shrugged. “Best thing I can think of, unless someone’s really good at jumping and can get across that chasm.”

“Spending the night it is!” Marian said when Carver started eyeing the gorge.

As soon as Corypheus’ ashes had been carried away by the wind, they went below. With the number of mages they had and the amount of stone at their disposal, blocking off exits was easier than they had originally assumed. Sigrun even instructed them on where and how to leave a hole for the smoke to go through, if they wanted a fire.

“Maker, _yes_ ,” said Anders.

No one faulted him for it. Malcolm suspected they all felt the same way. There’d been too much darkness during the day and into the night. Any light was welcome, and certainly the warmth of a fire and hot food wouldn’t hurt. Bedrolls were spread out in various corners or alongside walls in the room, leaving the center for the makeshift fire, and lending the illusion of privacy to the various members of the group. Sebastian showed a surprising talent at camp cooking, and managed to put together a decent stew from dried herbs, various root vegetables, the dried meat they’d carried in their packs, water from the dwarven waterskins, and a touch of good ale from a flask he happened to have.

“You _would_ be good at this,” Carver said once he’d gotten a sizable helping of his own.

“If you don’t want yours, I’ll take it,” said Bethany. “Because that sounded like complaining.”

Carver paused to glance over at his sister. “It used to be that I’d eat your extra food.”

“Warden thing,” said Sigrun. 

“What?” asked Marian.

“Increased appetite. Don’t ask.”

“Oh, no. I’m asking. Anders?”

As Anders began a long explanation of the effects of the taint, Malcolm settled back against the wall, wanting to let his mind wander, but half-afraid to do so. Líadan was next to him, starting into her empty tin bowl as if divining answers. She’d been unnaturally quiet, and since he understood why, he hadn’t tried to get her to talk. With Corypheus dead, all they had left was returning to Kirkwall, quickly followed by returning to Denerim to deal with whatever Líadan had seen. It was clear to him she was getting anxious about it, and it wasn’t something she had to carry on her own any longer.

At times, getting her to talk about what bothered her was like trying to help an injured wild animal without startling it. One wrong move and you’d get bitten. While they could share part of the burden of what Ava might be, there was one he could never truly help her with—her guilt he knew she’d be feeling if she’d given magic to Ava. The Gift, the Dalish called it. It was supposed to stay with the People, and not be passed on to elf-blooded humans. It had been hard for Líadan to relieve herself of the majority of her guilt for just _having_ Ava. The addition of the very real possibility of her having passed magic to their daughter was an entirely different measure of guilt that he’d never truly comprehend. 

“Did you want to talk about Ava?” he asked, taking care to be very quiet. Fenris might have heard them, but he was the silent enough type to pretend he hadn’t.

“No.”

“Oh, so you’re that kind of upset.”

Líadan tapped the bowl against her drawn-up knee. “Which is another reason I hadn’t told you my suspicions.”

“Out of curiosity, did you ask her not to hit her brother with lightning? Or, you know, not do any sort of magic again while in front of anyone, ever?”

“Of course I did. Not that Cáel didn’t deserve some sort of retaliation. She’d put up with his teasing all day until she got even.”

He idly looked up at the ceiling. “I wonder where she got her patience from.”

“My mother was very patient,” said Líadan.

Malcolm chuckled, struck by the memory of Fiona snapping at both him and Líadan when they’d visited Weisshaupt years ago. “Certainly not _mine_. Not my natural mother. The mother who raised me, though. She was. I think only Andraste had as much patience as she did with what Fergus and I put her through.” He missed her. He missed both of them, and there’d been so many times he’d wanted them in the lives of his children. They both would have enjoyed being a grandmother, and both of them would’ve had good advice about what to do concerning Ava. He also realized that Líadan still missed her own mother in an almost painful way. It would’ve been hard for him not to see it, and now would be one of those times when she’d acutely feel the pain of her being gone. When the slight laugh she’d shared with him was quickly smothered, he knew the direction of her troubled thoughts. 

He wished he had an answer. Better yet, he wished he could somehow produce her mother so she’d find the comfort and advice she needed, things he couldn’t provide in the same way. Since he couldn’t, he worked with what he had by putting an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close. She leaned into him, relaxing slightly as she used his body for support. They were both too awake to fall asleep immediately, yet they were both too mentally exhausted to talk about what needed to be. 

It could wait.

Given the considerable effort it had taken them to get through the prison the day before, getting out was remarkably easy. The darkspawn seemed to have wandered to locations elsewhere in the Deep Roads, the Carta hadn’t returned to their hideout, and they never did find Riordan or his body. They set a good pace through the Planasene, grateful for Varric’s ability to break up the monotony of a long march. He mostly told stories, ones that filled the group with laughter. A few times, Varric managed to find subjects he’d believed fine for good-natured teasing, yet turned out to be anything but. 

Those times, Malcolm wasn’t entirely convinced Varric hadn’t done it on purpose. The dwarf had remarkable insight when it came to people in general, and cared enough about his friends to address issues they otherwise wouldn’t. He also had enough decency to not bring up the topics when in public. A group of friends, however, didn’t count as public. And so it went.

“So,” Varric said to Marian as the afternoon stretched into early evening, “when will we be hearing the pitter-patter of the sneaky feet of many Starkhaven and Amell heirs?”

Marian groaned. “Maker, Varric, you sound like my mother. I’ll tell you the same thing I told her—take it up with Sebastian.”

“Tried that,” said Varric. “He told me to take it up with Andraste. I told him I did, and that Andraste said to get it on. He didn’t believe me. Can you believe that?”

“Yes,” said Carver.

Sebastian looked toward the sky before he addressed Varric. “Andraste would not encourage one of her followers to ‘get it on.’”

“How do you know? Not everything Andraste ever said is in the Chant. Maybe she liked colloquialisms.”

The comment drew a sigh from Sebastian. Then he asked, “Did you know that I have already been verbally accosted over this very subject?”

Marian perked up. “By whom?”

“Your mother.”

“That isn’t news.”

“And Isabela.”

“Wait, together?” asked Varric.

“Yes,” said Sebastian. “Together. Which meant I had to sit through an entire talk regarding the importance of heirs—that was Leandra—and the importance of grandchildren in one’s life—also Leandra—and then a long, involved, and explicit talk about how heirs are made, courtesy of Isabela.”

“And?” The slight hopefulness in Marian’s tone reflected in her eyes.

“If I am to assume Starkhaven’s throne from Goran, I’ve been made to see the necessity of heirs. Despite what vows I may have made to Andraste before, it is not equitable to enforce them when I have made vows to another.”

“Thank the _Maker_ ,” said Marian. “Can we start now?”

“No!” said Carver.

“We could catch up later, if you’re worried about us falling behind.”

“Maker, no!” said Bethany. “That’s not why we’re out here.”

“You’ll have to reign it in, love,” said Sebastian. “There are… topics that must be addressed, first.”

Marian raised an eyebrow at Sebastian. “Why do I get the feeling this will be less about favorite positions and more about certain talents a child could inherit from my side?”

“Because it is,” Malcolm said before Sebastian could attempt to wriggle out of a direct answer. “Whether you want it to or not, there are problems that come with bringing magic into a royal line.”

“The Maker wills as He wills,” said Sebastian. “Your line is healthy, given it has many heirs compared to just a generation ago, even with the amount of magic in it.”

“I don’t think the Theirin line is a good comparison. We’ve a lot more magic in it than you would with Marian. Cáel has the most potential to show it, which is just one reason of many why we’re hoping he doesn’t inherit. Dane and Callum would be closest to what you’ll have.”

There were a few steps empty of talking before Sebastian replied, “You did not mention your daughter.”

“She isn’t in the line of succession, so there wasn’t a point.” For Sebastian to bring up Ava was a low blow. If she ever had children, they and their heirs wouldn’t be in the line of succession, either. Bringing up Ava wasn’t about discussing the potential of magic in a royal line, because she wasn’t in the line, not the one that mattered when it came to assuming thrones.

“Yet, she is a mage.”

Malcolm gritted his teeth as he shoved down choice words that would only make things worse. “Might be. _Might_.”

Líadan made no effort at keeping the peace, immediately confronting the former Chantry brother with a deadly stare. “Are you going to tell the templars when we get back to Kirkwall?” Her implication was clear—if he was going to, she wasn’t going to allow him to return.

Not even Anders or Justice felt the need to lend an additional threat, while Sebastian halted and turned around to meet Líadan’s steady look. 

Varric took measure of the entire group while managing to roll his eyes without actually doing so. “I suppose it’s a good time to stop and find a good place to camp. Since we’ve stopped.” He pointed at a clearing just beyond the edge of the trail. “Over there looks nice. How about we go there?” Without looking back to see if the others followed, he headed for the clearing.

No one argued his decision, and despite the tension straining the friendships amongst them, they followed Varric without exchanging any further words. They silently prepared a camp, and only once the sun had set and a quiet meal eaten did anyone talk.

It was Sebastian who took up the matter hanging over them. “I could not go to the templars on the mere supposition that a child is a mage. There is no proof, thus there is nothing to tell.” For a moment, he glanced over at Marian, who was giving him a glare heavy with expectation. Realization at how he’d not cleared anything up lighted in his eyes, and he turned to address Líadan and Malcolm again. “Even if Andraste herself told me that your daughter was a mage, I would do nothing to put her in harm’s way. The Circle, such as it exists now, is not a safe option. If a young mage already has responsible, competent instructors—such as the daughters of Malcolm Hawke—there is no need to remove a small child from the very arms of her parents.”

“Also,” Marian said from beside him, “I’d have to hurt you if you did. And I’d have to beat our friends in a footrace to get to you first, and I can’t even imagine what Isabela or Merrill would do to you if they got to you before I did.”

Sebastian had the decency to look abashed at his missteps, even though he’d meant well.

Líadan looked at Carver. “And you, templar?”

Carver gaped at her as he held up his hands to show his innocence. “Are you kidding? Mother would kill me. I’m not saying a sodding word.”

“If it is true,” Fenris said from the opposite side of the fire, “can she be taught the strength required for proper control?”

“I’ll teach her myself, if need be,” said Bethany.

Fenris nodded. “And you are not weak. If you believe it can be done, then I will trust it.”

“We don’t need to plan anything yet,” said Malcolm. “Nothing is certain.”

“No, it never is,” said Fenris.

Next to Malcolm, Líadan visibly relaxed, the tension of preparation for a fight leaving her limbs as she settled into a comfortable position.

“You may not believe it,” said Sebastian, “but there are those who wish for peace to exist. There are those who believe the magi are as much the Maker’s children as any of us, and not to be treated as if they are not worthy of the Maker’s love. You’ve even met one of them in Grand Cleric Elthina.”

Marian shifted, crossing and uncrossing her legs as she tried to hold in her objections. Then she gave up. “She doesn’t do enough. She advocates peace, yet won’t step in to curtail either side. Meredith is too harsh, and at the same time, Orsino too reactionary.” She pointed at Anders without looking at him. “Not one word out of you.” When it was apparent that Anders would keep quiet, she added, “It isn’t going to end well if Elthina continues to do nothing.”

“Which is why you wish to leave Kirkwall,” said Sebastian.

“The writing is on the wall. I’m not going to ignore it, and neither should anyone else. Meredith will not change of her own accord, and neither will Orsino. There will be a time when one or both of them goes too far, and by then it will be too late for Elthina to intervene. Blood will be shed, and I don’t want to be there when it is. I don’t want my friends or family to be there, either, but not everyone has a way out of the city. Fenris has agreed to help us in Starkhaven, sure. And maybe Carver could get a transfer. Isabela has her ship. But others don’t have ties loose enough to undo. My mother certainly won’t let go, no matter what I say. Anders has his clinic. I can’t expect him to leave those who need a healer most without one. Aveline is Captain of the Guard. I can’t expect her to just walk away, especially when we have no work to offer her in return.”

“She might,” said Malcolm. “All the officers from Ostagar who are alive, but thought dead, are being offered back their commissions. Aveline should be getting a letter soon, if she hasn’t already.”

“Even then, I don’t know what she’ll say,” said Marian.

He shrugged. “If she says no, the offer won’t disappear. Ferelden could use good officers, and if she ever wanted to return, she’d be welcome.”

Marian tapped her lips with her finger, and then turned to Varric. “What about you?”

“Me? I go where the stories take me. Don’t you worry about me, Hawke.”

“And Merrill? If we all go, she’ll be alone in the city. She still has her eluvian, and her former clan is still on Sundermount, so it isn’t like she can just pick up and leave.”

Líadan straightened from where she’d been leaning against Malcolm, presumably for reassurance and not comfort, since the Planasene was rather warm in late summer. “Emrys offered her a place with his clan as his First. He approves of her work with the eluvian, so she could bring it with her. A shard of glass isn’t that hard to carry.” For her to voluntarily mention what Emrys had said to Merrill said a lot about what she also saw brewing in Kirkwall. She was only an occasional visitor, like Malcolm, and it seemed they both saw what Marian did.

Varric chuckled. “It isn’t just a shard of glass anymore. Our Daisy’s been hard at work. It looks like a real mirror now, even if it doesn’t quite reflect.”

“Still, it could be transported.” Then Líadan broke off and glared into the forest, a glare meant for Merrill, and not the innocent trees. 

Malcolm knew Líadan’s frustration with Merrill and the eluvian gave her something else to focus on, so he didn’t try to bring her out of it. That frustration was much preferred over the worry that would otherwise take over. The others continued chatting about how they could leave Kirkwall, with Marian and Sebastian finally deciding that nothing could really be done until they were back from Starkhaven and knew what the timetable there would be. It would also give Marian more time to spend convincing her mother to leave. While she didn’t believe it could be done, she couldn’t stop trying. It was her mother, after all. But Malcolm only partly paid attention, his thoughts on other things since he would be leaving Kirkwall in a matter of a couple days. What waited for him at home wasn’t exactly an easy situation, but at least it wasn’t Kirkwall. 

Then again, maybe Kirkwall was the easier of the two, since people could just leave the city, and the problem would be over. He supposed leaving could be a solution to his and Líadan’s problem, but then they’d be leaving a significant amount of family behind. He’d be leaving his home, and highly unlikely to be able to return. The lack of amenable solutions had served to keep him awake for his watch the night before, and he hoped his tiredness would force him to sleep tonight. Or maybe a way out would be dropped in his lap.

In their tent, as Líadan pulled blankets around them, Malcolm asked, “Did you want to talk about it yet?”

Her movements didn’t cease. “No.” She sounded far more confident than he believed she felt. It was in her sleep that her true feelings showed. When it became stuffy and overly warm in the tent, as usually happened sometime in the night when their confines were tight, she didn’t roll away to escape the additional heat of another body. Since she never slept well when hot, she rarely stayed against him when it was. So when the warmth didn’t chase her away, and she instead draped an arm over his chest and pressed closer, he knew she was far more worried than she’d let on. Sleep eluded him as he stared up at the canvas of the tent, searching for a solution.

The next day, when they reached Kirkwall and had washed off the dust and grime from the road and battle, it was Líadan who suggested a visit to Merrill. Bethany was the first to give her a questioning look, knowing full well how Líadan felt about the eluvian and Merrill’s involvement, and Malcolm gave Líadan the same look. 

“I’m not so sure I want to bring you down there,” said Bethany. 

Líadan scowled at her, not doing a good job of making a case for herself. “I’m not going to do whatever it is you think I’m going to do to Merrill.”

“Maybe you think you aren’t. You might change your mind when you get there, and I don’t want responsibility for it.”

“Fine. We’ll go by ourselves.”

Malcolm widened his eyes in panic. They’d end up at the docks, if they were lucky. If they were unlucky, they’d end up in a fight in Darktown. Neither place was where they wanted to be.

“You’d never get there.”

_Exactly_ , Malcolm mouthed to Bethany from behind Líadan.

Isabela, who indeed had been waiting for them all when they got back, straightened up from where she’d been reading various notes and letters left on Marian’s desk. “I’ll bring them. Wouldn’t want them wandering into Darktown. I’m not sure the Coterie could sustain the damage they’d take by trying to steal from two lost Wardens. Besides,” she said as Bethany tried to voice her objections, “I haven’t checked in on Kitten in a few days, so I’m going there. If these two choose to follow me, who am I to stop them?”

Bethany threw her hands over her head as she walked away, absolving herself of the responsibility. Isabela only laughed.

Her good humor accompanied the trio as they took the many steps down to Lowtown. Isabela told them about her most recent escapade—something involving Estwatch and evading other pirates who wouldn’t have known the proper star charts to use even if said charts had been rolled up and smacked them in the face—and the gossip she’d managed to wrangle from Varric practically as soon as they’d entered the city.

Then she quirked her lips, mulling over a new idea as they descended the last few sets of stairs leading to the alienage. “You know, if what I heard from Varric is true, you both realize this just means you’ll have to send your girl to me to be my apprentice?”

Malcolm chuckled, genuinely amused by the thought. He could easily see his daughter being perfectly happy out at sea. “She’d probably like that.”

“I bet she’d make a great sailor. With her mother’s agility and her father’s rather exceptional sailing skills, she could take over as Queen of the Eastern Seas when she’s of age.”

“I’m almost tempted,” said Malcolm.

“I know! That’s what makes this so fun.” Her eyes brightened more as she ran with her idea. “I could probably even talk Sunshine into signing on.”

“We’ll consider your offer,” said Líadan, who sounded rather serious about not intending to consider the offer at all.

“Oh, don’t talk like that. Where did my lovely pirate Warden go?”

“Isabela, I’ve never been a pirate.”

“More’s the pity, I say. Your whole family could take to the seas. It would be a thing of beauty. You with wind-blown hair, a treasure at the sea—”

“If you stop right there, I’ll consider it.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Isabela hugged her close from the side. “That’s my girl.”

When they passed the vhenadahl, Isabela announced that she’d be waiting outside. “There’s a lovely hat shop around the corner. I should see if they got in anything new while I was away.” Before they could object, she was gone.

Merrill invited Malcolm in after Líadan. He felt overly large in the small home, cramped to the point where he had recollections of the aravels he’d once tried to fit inside. Shelves filled with books dominated one wall of Merrill’s apartment, most of which had been added in the years since the Qunari tried to take over Kirkwall. Maker, but there were a lot. He’d gotten so preoccupied with staring up at them that he was left behind by the other two people in the home. 

“It still doesn’t work,” he heard Merrill say to Líadan as he stepped around the corner. “But I don’t dare finish it until I deal with the spirit that offered its help. All spirits are dangerous, so I can’t know its true intentions. There could even be some way it could escape through it. It has to be clean; it’s the only way to be sure.”

To Malcolm, the eluvian looked finished. Its base was a curious contraption of curling wooden vines, but the mirror itself looked much like what he remembered. It reflected light so dully that it might well as not have reflected at all, and he felt pushed away from it, like it was telling him not to touch it. Not that he would. Sometimes, he recalled when he’d had to fire that bolt into a blighted, twisted creature that had once been Líadan’s friend Tamlen. And it’d been Tamlen who’d touched the eluvian—this eluvian in particular. It wasn’t like the one Morrigan had found and traveled through. That one had been a portal. This one was wrong. Not _as_ wrong, but still wrong in some indescribable way.

“The spirit in the statue? Wasn’t that Justice?” asked Líadan. Her expression had already turned dark when she first gazed at the nearly-complete eluvian, and it only grew darker as explanations became more muddled.

“There were several more. I might need to deal with them all to be sure it’s safe. Others will have to come with me. Maybe Anders, so he can find out from Justice which spirits need to be killed. All of them, probably, which won’t be easy. Hawke will—”

“Has it occurred to you that it might be difficult for a reason?” Líadan stood and stepped away from the eluvian. Then she held one of her arms towards it, as if the ward it off should it attack her. “That all these barriers are there to keep people from getting hurt? And you just go leaping over them, thinking of only the history you can save, thinking of what it will be when it’s completed, and not thinking—just not thinking! I’m afraid that you aren’t afraid enough. You’re talking about going up to Sundermount to confront several spirits, like you’re going to come out on top from a battle like that.” 

The level of Líadan’s anger was astonishing; Malcolm hadn’t seen her like this since the Blight. Yet, Merrill seemed untroubled, standing up straight, never looking away from the friend practically shouting at her. 

Meanwhile, Líadan hadn’t stopped. “You might as well just tear a hole in the Veil and fight everything that comes out for all you’ll be able to survive. You’re about to open a door that should never have been opened in the first place. Look at—”

“What are you really afraid of, _lethallan_?” asked Merrill.

Líadan stopped mid-sentence.

Merrill continued to speak softly, a counterpoint to Líadan’s raised voice from before. “You act like you’re angry, maybe even feel like you’re angry, but it’s only a disguise for your fear.”

A silence passed between them, as Merrill waited while Líadan stared at a clanmate who dared to say what she truly saw. Then Líadan seemed to crumple inward, slumping to the floor to lean against the side of Merrill’s small bed. The anger had been keeping her upright, and when she let it go, her strength went with it. “I think Ava has the Gift.”

Merrill went to her side and took one of Líadan’s hands in hers. “I’m so sorry.”

Malcolm felt like an intruder. He was the reason why Merrill consoled Líadan instead of congratulating her. In a Dalish clan, a child manifesting magic was a happy occasion. Only in the world of the elf-blooded, of humans and the Chantry, was it a curse. He wondered if he should go outside.

“You don’t need to leave, _lethallin_ ,” said Merrill, as if she’d known what was going through his head.

“No, don’t leave.” Líadan sounded remarkably calm, given the events that’d happened only moments before. “It’s fine. I’m fine. It’s the eluvian. It’s like it focuses our tendencies, like it did to Tamlen’s curiosity—and to mine. Maybe to Merrill’s, too.” She remained seated, but she straightened a little.

“If you say so,” said Malcolm. He’d noticed that Merrill hadn’t let go of Líadan’s hand.

“Neither of you believe me, I know.” Líadan cast a meaningful look at Merrill’s hand, and then raised her eyebrow at Malcolm. “I just came here to get Merrill’s opinion about what to do, if… if it’s true.”

He tried a smile. “There’s always Isabela’s offer to consider.”

Her stare at him rivaled the one she’d given Merrill. “Malcolm. We are not apprenticing our daughter to a pirate.”

“But that would be so fun for her!” said Merrill. “I could go, too. Isabela told me I’m always welcome on her ship.”

Líadan sighed.

Merrill let go of her hand and gave it a pat. “It’ll work out. If you don’t want to send her to Isabela, then maybe the Dalish, like Emrys did for Feynriel. Or maybe another clan, like the Ra’asiel, if you can find them. The Mahariel, maybe. It will depend on Keeper Marethari.” Then Merrill’s lightheartedness slipped away, replaced by a solemnity Malcolm saw a lot with Dalish Keepers. “No matter what you decide to do, you should consider Cáel’s safety, as well, if it’s true. The Chantry knows he’s _Asha’belannar_ ’s grandson. If they discover his sister has the Gift, I don’t think they’d leave him alone, not if any of them are like Knight-Commander Meredith. But he will always have safe refuge with the Dalish. No clan would leave kin of _Asha’belannar_ unprotected.”

At their despondent expressions, Merrill lifted her hands, as if she could lift their spirits with them. “But we don’t really have to assume anything. Maybe it isn’t magic. If it is, you’ve got a teacher, don’t you? Bethany’s quite good and patient. So long as your daughter’s magic stays hidden from the templars, there’s no need to be so down.”

“I want to believe you,” said Líadan.

“I’ll believe for you,” said Merrill. “I can hold onto hope when no one else can.”

Líadan took in Merrill’s statement, and then looked over at the eluvian in the corner. After she studied it this time, the rancor she usually reserved for it was absent. “You’re missing two pieces, Merrill.” She pointed to each side of the eluvian. “There should be a statue of Falon’Din on one side, and then a statue of Dirthamen on the other, like they’re guarding the eluvian.”

Merrill hopped to her feet and circled the eluvian. Then she stopped to face Líadan. “How do you know?”

After releasing a long breath, Líadan stood up. “Years ago, while we were looking for Morrigan, we went back to that cave in the Brecilian Forest. You’d already taken the glass by then, but the frame was still there, along with the Tevinter statues. Outside the room, we came across the statue of Falon’Din, and I started to wonder where Dirthamen was, because—”

“The brothers are always together,” said Merrill.

Líadan nodded. “Right. So, some of us looked for his statue, while the two dwarves in our party studied an oddity they’d noticed about the bases of the statues. They figured out that the Tevinter statues weren’t the ones that had originally been there, and they were able to show where the Falon’Din statue had been cut at its base and removed from the eluvian. We assumed the same had happened to the Dirthamen statue, but the statue itself was lost or destroyed.”

“You’re certain?”

“When Tamlen and I went in the room the first time, there was a bear, and the bear was tainted.”

“So even with Dirthamen gone, his favorite kept watch over his artifact,” said Merrill. “This helps! Except I don’t know where I’d get statues of Falon’Din and Dirthamen. I’m not very good at carving.”

“Master Ilen should be able to help you,” said Líadan. 

“He might not. The clan has changed.”

“Do you know where the clan’s statues of the Creators went? It isn’t like the clan’s using them.”

Merrill’s eyes lit up, even though the words that immediately followed didn’t match the sentiment. “No, not ours. But when Keeper Emrys visited with Oisín, they brought new statues. They were never set out like they should be, just like the others that disappeared, but the donated ones are still in the aravel that carried them to Sundermount. If I invoke _vir sulevanan_ , they’ll have to give them to me. I should kill the spirits first, though. Just in case.”

“I think…” Líadan took measure of Merrill, and then nodded. “I think that would be for the best.”

“I wish you could come with me. I know you can’t. You’ve too much to deal with, but that doesn’t change what I wish.”

“And if I had the time, I’d go with you,” said Líadan, which took Malcolm entirely by surprise. He’d thought that if Merrill had ever asked Líadan for help with the eluvian, Líadan would’ve told her clanmate to do something anatomically impossible with it. And now she was actively helping, and actually had said she’d do more, if she could.

He idly wondered if Líadan had picked up some sort of passenger while they were at the prison. 

Merrill seemed to be having the same kind of thoughts. She tilted her head to the side as she studied her clanmate. “Why’ve you changed your mind?”

Which, Malcolm figured, was a better question than his would have been. _“Have you lost your mind?”_ would have ended painfully.

For just a moment, Líadan’s decent mood departed. “After what I might have taken from them, the Dalish deserve something good. Maybe you can do that.” Then Líadan returned to her normal self, and cast a determined look at Merrill. “Just promise me that if you can’t be sure the eluvian won’t pose a threat, you’ll leave it be.”

“I promise, _lethallan_.” Merrill briefly glanced down at her toes before she asked her next question. “Would it be all right if I brought it to Keeper Emrys, if this plan doesn’t work?”

Líadan opened her mouth, shut it, mulled over the question, and then attempted another answer. “If it meant you leaving Kirkwall, yes.”

“You can feel it, too? Like something’s building to an end? It’s very oppressive.”

If Merrill had anything else to add, it was cut off by Isabela’s voice from the front door. “Come on, you lot. We’ve got a date at the Hanged Man for another round of Diamondback.”

Malcolm groaned.

“Oh! You aren’t very good at cards, either?” asked Merrill.

“He’s awful,” said Isabela. “My aim is to take him for all he’s worth, and then put him to work on my ship. In my cabin. In my bunk. Without the clothes and armor I would’ve won from him before that.”

Malcolm looked to Líadan for help. “You don’t have anything to say about this?”

She flashed a grin at him, and nothing more.

_Maker_. They would be the death of him.

As they headed for the Hanged Man, Malcolm reasoned he felt somewhat better—despite Isabela’s rather detailed plans for debauchery—and it was obvious that Líadan was back to herself. Their last night in Kirkwall was enjoyable, with Malcolm even narrowly avoiding the loss of his armor and clothing, as Isabela had practically promised. Líadan was up half the night winning back the coin he’d lost. The wee hours brought the match down to Marian and Líadan, and in the end, they called it a draw and rewarded themselves with sleep, much to Isabela’s disappointment. To make up for it, Isabela informed them, she’d bring them home, but on the condition they add another week for her at the Pearl on their tab.

“Remember what I said,” she told them when they disembarked in Denerim. “I meant every word.” Then with a wink and a wave, she was off to the brothel, while the four Wardens headed for the compound to meet with their Warden-Commander.

With the Warden compound in Denerim possessing of a full complement, it meant that they had to wait for Hildur to finish a session with a batch of potential recruits. The small meetings were Hildur’s way of weeding out recruits with stars in their eyes, yet no skills in their hands. She also tended to use the opportunity to scare the potential recruits, if she could. A squad of four veteran Wardens returning from a long trip to the vicinity of the Deep Roads clattering through the front door and into the main hall certainly provided one. Though they’d had the chance to clean up in Kirkwall, it always took a while to truly rid themselves of the stink of darkspawn. Coupled with the smell of salt from their days at sea, one could easily tell they hadn’t been for a nice stroll around Denerim.

“Sweet Ancestors!” Hildur said as soon as she noticed them. “What happened to your shield? I’ve seen arse-ends of brontos that’ve looked better.”

Malcolm scowled, the rather battered state of his shield having slipped his mind. He offered Hildur a rueful grin. “Turns out there’s alpha versions of genlocks,” he said, doing his best to sound nonchalant, because that tended to unnerve potential recruits more.

“We ran into it,” said Sigrun. “Literally.”

Bethany frowned. “I think it ran into us. Well, it ran into someone else first, and then into Malcolm. It’s a little blurry with the rest of the darkspawn that attacked with it.”

“Emissary was a nasty piece of work,” said Malcolm.

“Emissary?” asked one of the potential recruits.

“Darkspawn mage,” said Hildur. “Crushing prison spell is their favorite. Feels like all your bones are ground together while still inside your body.”

Two of the five potential recruits got up from their seats and left the building.

“That was just mean,” said Malcolm. 

Hildur lifted her hands up in an innocent shrug. “I’m only telling it like it is. You’ve been caught by how many of those spells?”

“More than I’d like to count.”

“And was my description not apt?”

“Mostly. You forgot about the part where it lifts you up in the air, so that when the spell lets go, you land on the ground pretty hard. And if you’re really lucky, it won’t be on your head.”

A third potential recruit left.

Hildur faced the other two. “All right, if that didn’t scare the pants off you, come back tomorrow morning and we’ll put you through some drills.” After the last two departed, Hildur glanced over at her veteran Wardens. “Sovereign says only one comes back in the morning.”

“I’ll take it,” said Sigrun. “I say none of them do.”

Bethany hadn’t taken her eyes off the closed door. “Maker, they get younger every year. Have any of them even reached their majority?”

“Hey!” said Malcolm. “I hadn’t reached mine by the time we ended the Blight.”

Hildur laughed as she stood from the bench. “And you only just now started to look your age. Maybe.”

“Don’t remind me,” Líadan said with a sigh.

“All right, let’s get this report business over with.” Hildur waved in the direction of the stairs. “We can use Malcolm’s study, since I took it over while he was gone.” She gave him a smile. “Don’t worry, you can have it back, and it’ll be in better shape than what you left it in, and not destroyed, like when you leave it to Oghren.”

Malcolm was still finding items and stains of dubious origin from the last time Oghren had been left in command.

Having been away from home for almost a fortnight, none of them were eager to stick around to deliver a lengthy report to their commanding officer. Fortunately for them, the Grey Wardens had never been big on official methods of delivering reports. So long as the report was given verbally, and then written down in a legible, literate script, there were no other requirements, which meant a debriefing by a Warden-Commander wasn’t a huge deal. Consequently, they tended to also take very little time. 

Malcolm did feel a bit awkward to have Hildur sitting behind his desk instead of him. While he hadn’t been used to having a study at first, he’d accepted his role over the years, and came to like running the Denerim compound. It was a far sight better than doing princely things. Here, there was a lot less bullshit, both thrown and tolerated.

“So, how did it go?” Hildur asked as the other Wardens found chairs.

Malcolm gently tossed the journal on the desk before taking a seat. “Corypheus is dead. Prison had a lot of darkspawn. Ran into Janeka. She wouldn’t listen to reason—I know, I was shocked, too—and attacked us. She came around to our side mid-fight when she figured out we were the Wardens who ended the Blight. So, she started to help us kill the revenants she summoned—”

“Bloody revenants,” muttered Bethany.

Malcolm resisted a smile, because after their trip, she had more than enough reason to hate revenants, obvious reasons aside. “And then Anders’ passenger decided to kill her, because she was a blood mage. Or something. Then the Wardens with her took exception and attacked us, while the revenants attacked _everybody_ , and it was looking bad until Justice—the same spirit that got us _into_ the fight—got tired of it and killed everything but us.”

Hildur stared at him for a minute. “Go back to the bit about Anders.”

“The spirit he took in, Justice? He’s an—”

Bethany helped him out. “Uptight, unreasonable, high-strung, intolerant—”

“I get it,” said Hildur. “What I don’t get is how Anders lost control of him.”

Malcolm shrugged. “Could’ve been plenty of things.”

“Just two,” said Sigrun. “Either the calling Corypheus did unhinged the spirit along with Anders’ control, or—”

“Or Justice is taking over,” said Bethany.

The partial explanation only served to make Hildur more concerned. “Do we need to send a group to help him regain control? If he’s a danger, either to himself or others or both, we need to bring him home. And it isn’t just something we’d do to protect the Wardens from backlash, either. He’s one of ours. If he’s lost, we need to find him.” 

“I’m not sure he can be,” said Líadan, without any force to her voice at all, as if illustrating the futility of trying to rescue Anders.

Hildur raised an eyebrow at her, questioning her pessimism. While Líadan wasn’t one to be overly optimistic, her outlook wasn’t usually quite so dark. Even Sigrun shot her a confused look. Then Hildur shifted away from Líadan and to the others. “We still owe it to him to try, if he needs it.”

“I wouldn’t say he needs it right now,” said Bethany. “My sister’s watching over him. If she thought someone needed to intervene, she said she’d tell me, as long as it wasn’t an emergency. In that case, she’d send a letter… after the fact.” Each of them knew exactly what ‘after the fact’ meant: Anders being killed, because he wouldn’t have been Anders anymore.

Hildur nodded. “Sounds like a decent enough plan for now, but it bears watching. I’ll at least send him a letter from me, just to check in.” She glanced down at the journal Malcolm had returned to her. “I know the reports from the early Wardens talk about Corypheus’ calling, and you just mentioned it, so looks like that part’s true.” Then she looked directly at Malcolm and Líadan. “What are your thoughts on it? Like the Archdemon from the Blight?”

“Different,” said Malcolm. “The Old Gods have a musical quality to their call, but unless you’re darkspawn or a ghoul, it doesn’t compel you to do anything. Corypheus was irritating, and he thought he could control us like he could the ghouls and other Wardens. The only one of us who had to actively resist obeying him was Anders.”

“Differences between the old and new Joining potions, I think,” said Hildur. “Makes it all the better reason for every Warden to use it, like we do here, and not some optional thing, like every other country.” She closed the journal and set it aside. “Is there anything else? If not, you’re free to go.”

Bethany halfway stood, but rest remained seated. Then Sigrun looked expectantly at Líadan. “Well?”

“Riordan was there,” Líadan said after glaring at Sigrun.

Hildur jumped a little. “Our Riordan?”

The smile Líadan gave her was weary and rueful both. “I don’t know any others.”

“And?” asked Hildur.

“He talked,” said Malcolm.

“I think he was a darkspawn the whole time,” said Sigrun. “Not really Riordan, just a ghost of him. He heard Corypheus’ call and followed it through the Deep Roads to the prison. We saw him a few times, and he sounded fairly rational when he talked, but…” She shrugged.

Malcolm sighed. “In the end, he helped free Corypheus, forcing us into a tough fight. Then he disappeared while we were in battle.”

“Did you find him afterward?”

“No,” said Sigrun. “No sign of him, not even when we retraced our steps as we left.”

Hildur’s furrowed brow told them the news still troubled her. “I’ll put a note in my report. Weisshaupt will probably want to investigate further. I know I do, but they’re better equipped.” She opened up the journal, jotted a few notes, and closed it again. “Any other surprises?” When no one answered beyond shakes of the head, Hildur waved them out of the room. But then she held up a hand as they stood. “Wait.” She pointed at Bethany and Sigrun. “You two can go.” Her finger moved to Malcolm and Líadan, pointing first at them, and then the chairs they’d just abandoned. “You two stay here.”

As they left, Bethany and Sigrun gave them confused, but sympathetic looks.

Hildur waited until the door closed before she leveled her gaze on Líadan. “What’s with you?”

Líadan raised her eyebrows. “What’s with me, what?”

“You’re never this quiet. You’ve never been this quiet, not in all the years I’ve known you.”

“It was a long trip. I have a lot to think about.”

Hildur scoffed. “Right, and dusters live in the Diamond Quarter. Try again, and don’t even think of telling me it’s Riordan, either.”

Líadan crossed her arms and sat back in her chair. She said nothing as she continued to meet Hildur’s steady look. 

After a long moment of staring each other down, Hildur sighed and turned to Malcolm. “Tell me.”

His eyes widened. This wasn’t even _fair_. Putting him on the spot, knowing full well he couldn’t lie to literally save his life. But, he had to at least attempt to avoid spilling everything, because Líadan might very well kill him if he broke right away. “There isn’t—”

“Try again.”

Like it wasn’t now perfectly clear what Hildur’s motive had been in keeping him back along with Líadan when it came to confessions. And they said he was the transparent one. “Nothing’s—”

“Tell me another.”

Maker, this was awful. He was a grown man, and yet Hildur had him pinned with a glare rivaling ones his mother had given him when he was a boy. Normally, he’d have broken by now and told Hildur everything in a rush to get it over with, but if Líadan didn’t want to tell Hildur, he had to go along with with her decision. The issue with Ava was too important to be anything but united. 

Malcolm threw his hands in the air, feigning outrage. “I haven’t gotten a _chance_ to tell you anything.” 

This time, Hildur didn’t say a word. She just stared at him. 

He let his gaze wander over to the window behind Hildur, calculating if he could get over there and jump out before she could catch him. Hildur was deceptively fast.

“We think Ava might have magic,” said Líadan. Then she briefly touched Malcolm’s arm, telling him that she’d spoken in order to save him. Which was nice of her, he figured. She’d also probably noticed him eyeing the window and decided she’d rather not have him with broken legs.

Hildur settled back in her chair, the hardness that had been in her eyes immediately gone. “Nuglet’s a mage, huh? I’m not exactly surprised, but one out of two isn’t bad, considering.” She leaned forward and picked up the quill she’d dropped earlier. “I’ll send a message up to the Vigil to have Perran come down. She’ll need a teacher, and while Bethany’s good, I’d be more comfortable with Perran as primary instructor since he trained under a Dalish Keeper before he became one. Bethany will be a good secondary teacher.” She snagged a piece of paper, but didn’t write on it yet as she tapped the quill against her chin. “The Wardens and the staff here will know, of course, but no one will pass it on. I’ve made sure of that.”

Líadan stared at her. “You’ve thought about this.”

Hildur seemed genuinely surprised. “Of course I have. Odds were pretty damn high for at least one of the nuglets to turn out a mage, and we needed to be ready for that. Just like with Anders, you’re family, and so are the children. That means we take care of you. From what I’m told, kid mages need teachers. And, based on what I’ve seen and heard, any family of mine going to the human Circle is out of the question. That means we find one or more of our own to do the teaching. Perran agreed ages ago, and the staff and Wardens have been thoroughly vetted to make sure they won’t go running off to fetch templars—not just for little mages, mind you, but also because the Wardens have blood mages, and we don’t want templars killing them.”

They both continued giving her bewildered looks.

She half-rolled her eyes before she tried again. “What I’m saying is, we’ll keep her safe. If we have to, we’ll send the lot of you to another post. Vigil or the Peak, ideally, but if you have to leave the country, I’m sure Georg will find a good place.”

Malcolm hadn’t expected anyone to be so unbothered by the possibility of magic, and certainly hadn’t foreseen anyone being so prepared to harbor and school an apostate. “What if they come for her?”

“The Chantry? Let them. They can’t dictate to the Wardens, and if they try to bully us, they won’t succeed. If the Chantry thinks they can outfight us, then they’ll need to be taught otherwise. It isn’t just me saying this, either. Georg holds the same view, as do his advisors, even the devout Andrastians.”

While Malcolm understood why Fergus felt this way, he couldn’t quite grasp the same about Hildur. “But Ava isn’t a Warden.”

“No, but you’ve both seen the records regarding children who happen to have two Warden parents. Those records are important to keep up to date. Especially when this augmented Joining potion counteracts a lot of nastier side effects of the Joining, including fertility. There could be more kids like yours, so we all need to know that these kids turn out all right. Chantry interference would make that difficult, to say the least. If they could take away a mage child of two Wardens, they might get ideas about what they can do to actual Warden mages.” She quickly scratched something down on the paper, and looked up at them again when they didn’t say anything. “All that aside—don’t forget the family part. Wardens protect their own. Of course, unless it’s darkspawn to be fought, most would prefer to avoid conflict. Makes it easier and better for everyone involved. However, if it becomes necessary, we won’t back down.” 

“Thank you,” said Líadan, sounding as astonished as Malcolm felt.

Hildur gave her a friendly smile. “Not a problem at all. Just let me know when you find out for sure if she is or isn’t. Regardless, I’ll send for Perran since it’ll take a few days for him to get here.” She drummed the fingers of her free hand on the desk. “And I know you dread the truth that she is one. I understand it, as well as any dwarf is able. And I know you’d rather stay as you are, here in Denerim, with friends and family. I’d prefer that, too. But if that option isn’t available, you don’t need to dread the worst possible outcome. No one from our Warden family goes to the Circle. Not on my watch.” 

When they kept staring at her, she resorted to shooing them out. “Go on. Go see your family. I heard you’ve been missed.”

They left the compound in a bit of a daze, but Hildur had managed to brighten their prospects, if just a little.

The rest of the afternoon was spent with family, stories of Wardening relayed to a jealous Alistair, along with censored versions of events told to rapt children who were up far too late in the evening, yet far too excited to settle down for sleep at a reasonable time. Callum was the first to succumb, falling asleep on the floor in front of the fireplace. Alistair rolled his eyes and picked him up, the boy staying asleep even as his father put him over his shoulder like a sack of grain. 

“I suppose this is good night,” Alistair said to Malcolm and Líadan. Then he gave the remaining children a salute. “And I am impressed with your ability to remain awake, young sers. Alas, it’s time for bed.” With that, he walked out the door of the solar.

“Come along,” Anora said to Dane when he showed no sign of following. “There will be plenty of stories tomorrow. If your father and your aunt and uncle don’t have enough, the other Wardens have plenty more, provided you ask nicely.” Dane dragged his feet, but he obeyed, and Anora bade the others good night as she herded her eldest out of the room.

“Right then,” Nuala said as she stood up. “Off with you two. Past your bedtimes, and I know neither of you will sleep in when you should. I’m right behind you, so you’d better wash up properly.” Then she chased the children to their rooms, with Malcolm and Líadan following slowly behind. 

When they reached their family quarters, Líadan asked Nuala to supervise Cáel, and told her they would help Ava. Before he ducked into his room, Cáel gave them both a look telling them he knew exactly what they were doing. Malcolm could only give his son a wan smile, having nothing reassuring to say, especially when he knew that his son already knew what the truth was, and they didn’t. 

The door had hardly closed before Ava had perched herself on her bed. Her legs dangled off the edge as she idly kicked the mattress with her heels, and she took quick looks at them only to return to looking down at her hands that she’d placed in her lap. She was hardly the picture of the normal scamp they were used to, a child more likely to be building forts with her blankets to wage imaginary battles than she was to behave at bedtime. “I know why you’re here,” she said, her tone almost pleading.

Líadan hesitantly sat beside her, as if Ava would shy away. 

Malcolm stayed between the bed and the door, and held his breath.

“It was magic,” said Ava.

Something inside Malcolm tore, the ragged edges leaving little chance for repair. His chest burned because he wouldn’t stop holding his breath, the breath he’d held for that last chance for hope. If he let it go, it would be gone. Except it had already fled, and so he breathed. And he used the time between those breaths to figure out what they could do, because Merrill’s grasp on hope didn’t extend as far as Ferelden.

Líadan had gathered Ava into her arms, tears brimming in her own eyes when they so rarely did. She held her jaw set against the tremors the sadness brought, the guilt she felt for betraying her people in having passed the Gift to an elf-blooded child, and the despair only a mage living in a world with the Chantry could know at discovering their own child had magic.

“I’m sorry,” Ava said into Líadan’s shoulder.

“It’s not your fault.” She’d had to unclench her jaw to say it, releasing the strained hold she’d kept on her emotions, and it rendered her feelings transparent. It was easily enough seen where Líadan believed the fault to be—herself.

Malcolm caught her eyes with his. “It isn’t yours, either.” He didn’t need to remind her that his own mother had been a mage. It wouldn’t matter either way, because it was clear that Líadan wouldn’t believe the blame didn’t rest directly on her shoulders. Yet Malcolm knew that if blame belonged to anyone, it belonged to the Chantry and its ilk, for forcing this desperation on mages and their families. “It isn’t anyone’s,” he said out loud. “Except for the Chantry, and we don’t have to get them involved. If it’s magic, Perran and Bethany said they’d teach you.”

Ava pushed away from her mother. “I don’t want to learn.”

“You have to learn.” Líadan reached out and took Ava’s hands in hers. “You have to learn to control it, or it could hurt people. If you can control it, if you can make sure that no one but us or Perran or Bethany see it, we can all stay home.”

“What if someone else sees?”

“I don’t know. What I do know is that the Chantry will try to take you away, and we won’t let that happen.”

Ava looked up at Malcolm for confirmation. 

He gave it. “We won’t. No matter what it takes, they won’t take you.” Yet he’d seen the shadow of fear the Chantry had cast in his daughter’s eyes, and there was nothing he could do to remove it. She would always be afraid, and there was nothing he could to do reassure her. 

The Chantry would always exist. It was the way of the world.


	9. Chapter 9

“The thane of Wyvern Hold, so the story goes, had a vision and in it he beheld his clan, sleeping, deep in their cups after a feast. And as he watched, they transformed one by one into serpents. The only ones who escaped this fate were those snatched up by eagles and carried away.

The thane took this to mean that a terrible calamity would befall his people and that only the Lady of the Skies could save them. So the Wyvern clan forswore all other gods and devoted themselves to the Lady.

But the other Avvar clans feared that the disrespect of Clan Wyvern would bring the wrath of Korth the Mountain-Father upon their people. The other thanes tried words and then blades to change Wyvern’s ways without success.

When the Tevinter Imperium came with their legions to claim the mountains, many clans were wiped out, enslaved, or forced to flee across the Waking Sea to the south. Clan Wyvern, however, was not among them. They simply disappeared. And to this day some Avvar thanes will tell you—if they have had enough mead—that the last any soul ever saw of the Wyvern clan was a great flight of eagles descending to their hold.”

—from _Tales of the Mountain-People_ , by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar

**Morrigan**

As her child grew, there were times when Morrigan was reminded of an elf she once knew. These times were not when he showed his capacity for magic. These times were not when he switched easily from the trade tongue to Elvish and back. These times were not when he managed to impress even Arlathan’s mages with his potential. These times were also not when he read voraciously, taking in every fragment of information he could scavenge, for the sake of knowledge alone. Knowledge, he’d been taught, was power, and he believed it with the same fervor of the elves who believed in their Creators so fiercely that they still guarded Arlathan’s temples.

None of those times reminded Morrigan of Zevran. Those particular memories were left to be brought forth by Nathaniel, when he chose to teach tricks of his common trade to the seven-year-old boy with the soul of an Old God. That the boy turned out to be preternaturally good at it did nothing to make it acceptable, and when the boy attempted to charm his way out of being disciplined and nearly succeeded, it irked her. Let him practice his charms on the thousand-year-old elf who spoke too slowly, and yet knew so much that her son was forced to listen. Cianán hated lessons with Taranis, though he saw the necessity of them. Whenever her son stepped too far out of place, he would inevitably find himself trapped in the confines of the old elf’s study. The only thing that held the boy there was his thirst for knowledge, and he put himself through the torture of staying for the sake of it. Yet, given the choice, he would not go of his own accord. 

Once, Cianán had told Taranis that their lessons were a punishment for him, expecting outrage, leniency, or to be dismissed. Yet because Taranis had already known the nature of the arrangement, he’d simply smiled and carried on, even slower that time. It was remarkably effective as a disciplinary tool, yet did not waste too much of the boy’s valuable time. Truly, the few occasions in which Cianán found himself in a spot of trouble always led back to Nathaniel.

When she was certain that Cianán’s trudge down the path would carry him dutifully to Taranis’ lessons, Morrigan went to confront the real problem. She found Nathaniel in the central grassy field of the city, relegated to a corner that had been portioned off for archery practice. Though they had been away from Thedas for over a thousand years, the elves of Arlathan had not let their martial skills rust, and on any day, there would be many taking shots at the targets. In the beginning, they had grudgingly allowed Nathaniel to practice alongside them. In the years since, they had come to view his presence as sufferable. 

Morrigan stood behind Nathaniel, crossed her arms, and waited.

The Grey Warden loosed one last shot before he turned to face her, not even bothering to see where his arrow had struck the target—center. She would not tell him so. If he had wanted to know, he would have looked, and she was not impressed by his show of overconfidence.

“I take it you have a reason to be directing your glare at my person, my lady?”

“You have taught him more of your tricks.”

Nathaniel chuckled. “He’s learned them rather well, hasn’t he?”

“He has magic. He does not need to be a pickpocket.” Nathaniel would not charm her, either. His attempts to do so in complimenting her son would not work, and she would prove it thus.

“It hones his dexterity.”

“It makes him a thief.”

Nathaniel lifted his eyebrows in genuine surprise. “Since when do you care about petty thievery?”

“Since it was something of mine he stole.” It was not the item itself she concerned herself over. Since her son was the obvious culprit, the item had been easily recovered. What she did not like was the questions the ring had brought forth from the child. It had piqued his curiosity and he had not relented in his tiny inquisition:

It looks like a leaf. Is it a leaf? _Yes._

What is it made of? _Wood of a silvery color. More, I do not know._

Why don’t you know? _I am not an expert on trees._

Where did you get it? _It was given to me._

Who gave it to you? _A friend whom I once named sister._

What does it do? _Nothing_. _It does nothing._

If it does nothing, why do you keep it? _Because I choose to._

The last question had diminished her enough to send him to Taranis before she was forced to venture any further into the memory of a life left long ago.

“It was not the first thing of mine he had stolen,” she said when Nathaniel began to regard her too curiously. “The thievery must be stopped.” 

The item he had stolen last time was a cowl given to her as a gift. The gift had not been the cowl itself, but her reaction: laughter in a time governed by the grim oppression of fate. More a hideous pile of cloth roughly sewn together than an actual, useful cowl, it had still served a purpose. Malcolm had never revealed where he’d obtained it, nor was it important. The magic the cowl held was the possibility of respite from fate, if only temporary. And so she had kept it, just as she kept the ring Líadan had given to her before she had stepped through the eluvian. Líadan had explained that it would benefit Morrigan far more than it would her, in how it enhanced cast spells. Morrigan had no argument to such reasoning, for Líadan had been right. They both had not mentioned anything of sentimentality. It was better that way.

Yet, when Cianán had placed the cowl upon his head, Morrigan had almost allowed a laugh to escape, touched by a rare moment of amusement. Then she was very nearly overwhelmed by memories she did not want to relive. 

“Do not teach him to steal,” Morrigan said to Nathaniel. “I will abide it no longer.”

He bowed. “As you say, my lady.”

His easy acquiescence caused her to seethe inside, as did his overly formal treatment of her. He would know the discomfort it caused—he was too observant not to—and yet he continued with the behavior.

In the time that followed, if Nathaniel had declined to cease teaching Cianán his low thievery, Morrigan could not tell. What she could tell, and easily discovered once it had begun, was that Nathaniel had changed tactics. He still instructed the boy, yet now in a realm of martial skill. 

She stumbled upon it as she walked from one library to another, one clue of eluvian crafting in one book having led to her a new one, which was inconveniently located on the opposite side of the city. However, when she noticed her son lined up with the numerous archers in their practice area, her clue and her hunt were set aside.

The boy held a smaller version of the bows the Arlathan archers used, an arrow nocked and drawn to his cheek, his eyes on the target in absolute concentration. He released the arrow almost as smoothly as the older archers, and it struck the target just outside the bullseye. That a warm flare of pride went through her at her son’s ability did not matter. What mattered was that he possessed other, more powerful skills, and those were the ones he should be honing. These lessons were not necessary, and they squandered valuable time.

And that she did not interrupt Cianán when she pulled Nathaniel aside had nothing to do with her pride in her son. Nothing at all. 

“I take it you object, my lady?” asked Nathaniel, not a hint of contriteness on his face.

“He does not need to be a common archer.”

Nathaniel momentarily shifted his gaze over to the trees lining the central field. “Magic won’t get him dinner out in the forest.”

“It would if he took the wolf form he is perfecting.”

“And if he wishes to hide from templars and needs to eat something more than mushrooms and berries? It’s a skill and a disguise that will serve him well to have learned.”

Presented with the practicality of the lesson, Morrigan could not argue. So she strode away, unwilling to grant Nathaniel the victory. What she did grant him, though she did not speak it aloud, was that he seemed to have a vested interest in the boy. For what purpose, she did not know, yet it did not seem to be malevolent, and it rendered him and his behavior bearable.

He was, at times, tolerable. Such was her opinion of Nathaniel.

**Líadan**  

“I thought this was yours, Mamae,” Cáel said as Líadan handed him the ring.

“It was only mine to hold until it could be given to you.” She folded her son’s fingers over the ring resting in the palm of his left hand. “Morrigan gave it to your father, a long time ago. After Morrigan left for Arlathan, your father gave it to me for safekeeping. And now I’m giving it to you.”

He opened his fingers to examine the ring, tracing the details with a finger from his right hand. “What does it do?”

Malcolm sighed. “You know, sometimes, it wouldn’t be a bad thing for you to be less clever.”

Cáel rolled his eyes. “Anyone knows that most rings that mages or Wardens have come with some sort of rune or enchantment.” He pointed at the ring Malcolm had long since worn on his finger instead of next to the Warden pendant on his necklace. “Yours helps heal you. Uncle Alistair’s helps keep him safe from magical attacks. I could come up with more examples, if you want.”

“No, we get the idea.” Malcolm shifted in his seat next to Cáel. “To be honest, I’m not sure what it does anymore. It might not do anything. At most, it will help Morrigan find whoever wears it on their finger—if Morrigan was on Thedas. But she’s not, so there you go.”

“So why give it to me? I don’t know Morrigan. She isn’t my mother, not really. Mamae is.”

“She was your mother for the first three months you were alive,” Líadan said softly from her place on Cáel’s other side. “And she loved you enough to find another mother for you before she left you here with your father. You know this story. We’ve told you before.” She held her hand out toward him. “Let me put it on and I’ll give you an answer that you might accept.”

With a sigh that rivaled Malcolm’s, Cáel handed her the ring and the simple silverite chain it was strung on, and allowed Líadan to fasten it around his neck. With the clasp being the weakest point, Bethany had enchanted it to ensure it wouldn’t break.

Líadan felt like rolling her eyes herself at her son’s theatrics, but she didn’t. “We felt that it would be a good for you to have something of hers. Even if you don’t think of her as your mother, or would treat her as one if you ever got to meet her, she was still someone very important in your life, for however short a time she was in it. Maybe the ring will help keep you safe. Creators know, half the things your father and I have been through likely would’ve killed us ages ago. Maybe the ring had something to do with it.”

Cáel lifted the chain and studied the ring again. “So, better safe than sorry?”

Malcolm dropped to his back on his son’s bed. “Would it _kill_ you to be outwardly sentimental more than once every three months?”

“I was sentimental twice last week.”

After that remark, Líadan knew if she made eye contact with Malcolm, she would laugh. Malcolm just put an arm over his face and muttered under his breath, and Líadan was fairly certain it was about his own mother getting even for everything Malcolm had put her through when he was a child.

“In answer to your question, yes,” Líadan said to Cáel. “Now, is there anything else you’d like to ask, or are you done for tonight?”

“I’m not sure.” Cáel pulled his legs up onto the bed and crossed them, poking at a new hole in his sock. “Did you say goodnight to Ava already?”

“Yes,” Malcolm said somewhat warily, the question bringing him back to sitting up. “Why?”

“She told me today that she’s been having nightmares. I wasn’t sure if you knew.”

And if Cáel had passed along the information without a great deal of prompting, it meant he thought something was wrong. “We know,” Líadan said. “She keeps coming to sleep with us instead of her own bed.”

He wrinkled his nose. “I don’t do that anymore because it’s too crowded. Then it gets warm and if I want to sleep, that’s almost as bad as the nightmare for keeping me awake. I figured out that I could get Revas to sleep in my room if I need to feel safer. She stays on the floor and I get to stay in my own bed.”

“How would you feel about teaching your sister that trick?” asked Malcolm.

Líadan shot her bondmate a glare that he entirely ignored. While she’d had the same thought, she hadn’t said it out loud. It _did_ get too warm to sleep comfortably if one or both the children joined them. It wasn’t uncomfortable enough to deny them the reassurance they needed—so long as it didn’t become a habit—but it did get overly warm.

“I did,” said Cáel. “She said she doesn’t think Revas could help stop the things after her.”

“What sort of things?” Malcolm’s tone had taken on a sharp edge, one that Líadan understood.

“She wouldn’t say. When I kept asking, she went all quiet and wouldn’t answer. Maybe she’d tell you, if you asked.” He looked up from his systematic unraveling of his sock. “Do you think they’re demons?”

“It’s possible,” said Malcolm.

“If it’s them, can’t you go into the Fade and kill them?”

“I could,” said Líadan. “It would take a lot of work, and possibly a lot of travel, but I could go into the Beyond and kill them. But even if I did, there would be more. There would always be more.”

As if he couldn’t figure out what to do with his hands, or how to expend whatever nervous energy that had taken him, Cáel left his sock alone and switched to rubbing his finger along the side of the ring they’d given him. “It’s because of the magic, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Líadan wished she could have given him a different answer, one with a real solution.

“I’m glad I’m not a mage.”

Malcolm chuckled lightly. “Even though she believed you wouldn’t be one, Morrigan would have despaired to hear you say that.”

With the seriousness only a child could muster, Cáel said, “Then she should know better. I think it’s too hard.”

Líadan imagined Morrigan’s face if she’d heard what Cáel had just said. She barely managed to restrain her laughter, even with the gravity of the conversation.

“I do, too,” said Malcolm.

But Cáel had moved beyond mere seriousness to becoming genuinely upset. “I wish Ava didn’t have it. It isn’t fair.” Then the frustration he’d been holding in came out in a rush. He slid off the bed, throwing his hands in the air as he stalked about his room. “And I can’t help her. I’m her brother. I’m supposed to keep her safe and I can’t. I just have to watch.”

“I know,” said Líadan. “So do we.”

He sat down hard on the chair by the window. “It isn’t fair.”

“No, it isn’t. Magic, I’ve learned, even as someone without it, is never fair,” said Malcolm. “But you can still help your sister. What you can do is watch out for others. Make sure she doesn’t do anything that will let others know she has magic. And make sure neither of you say anything, either.”

Cáel nodded. “I can do that.” Then he got up and headed for the door, as if he’d go start right then. 

Malcolm intercepted him and directed him toward his bed. “You can start tomorrow. Right now, it’s bedtime.”

After he was tucked in and they were about to leave, Cáel asked one more question. “Can Revas sleep in here?”

“I’ll ask her,” said Líadan, suspecting she already knew what Cáel’s nightmares would be about—not being able to keep his sister safe. When she opened the door, Revas was already outside, as if she’d known. Once the doorway was clear, she bounded into the room and settled in at the foot of Cáel’s bed. Líadan wasn’t sure if her mabari’s insight reassured her or frightened her. Maybe a little of both.

Malcolm said nothing as they walked the short distance down the corridor to their own rooms. She knew he wanted to discuss what was happening, and she knew they needed to, but she still didn’t have the courage to face it down. They’d done all they were supposed to, everything that would have been done in a Dalish clan. When a young Dalish elf found out they had magic, they were apprenticed. If the Keeper had a First, they were not made a First, but apprenticed nonetheless. Mages had to be trained, guided, helped because of the power within them and the unique dangers they faced because of them. From the very beginning, before their raw magical ability grew into too much a temptation for spirits, those with the Gift were taught control. The time they had before the spirits were truly drawn to them was critical in establishing a young mage’s will to remain themselves. And now, before Líadan had even had time to truly comprehend that her daughter had the Gift, it appeared that Ava wouldn’t be granted that brief respite from the hounding of dark spirits.

Only when the outer door had closed, and the inner door of the bedroom had closed after, did Malcolm finally speak. “So, do you want to talk about it now?”

“No.”

He sighed, glanced at the bed, seeming like he wanted to climb in, but then elected to stand. “At least you’re honest. I mean, it isn’t like I want to talk about it, either. Frankly, I’d like to stick my head in the sand and pretend none of this is happening. But it keeps getting worse and I can’t help thinking…” he trailed off and looked in the direction of the children’s rooms. 

Like Malcolm had surely intended, he’d pulled her into a conversation. It was a particular talent he had, when it came to her. “Thinking what?”

“If it had to do with what happened when she was born. While she was born? I’m not sure how to describe it.”

“You mean the part where the demon tried to possess me? And then tried to go through me to get to her, and that’s what started the early birth?”

He made a circling motion with his hand. “Yes to all of that.”

“It’s a thought.”

“I know. I said so, right before I started in with the talking that you didn’t want to do. And that you still don’t want to do, apparently, given the look you’re giving me right now.”

She hadn’t meant to glare. She hadn’t even realized she was until Malcolm had mentioned it. Tiredness seeped into her, and she climbed onto the bed. Then she laid on her stomach and pressed her face on the quilt, as close to sticking her head into the sand as she could get with what she had.

“What’s this?” came Malcolm’s voice over the thump of him removing his boots. “Now you’re illustrating what I’m saying? I’d object, but this could be used for other applications. Or I’d say something about the taking off of shirts, but you didn’t even bother taking off your boots, which is very unlike you. Something about not wanting dirt on your sheets, even if it’s invisible dirt—which is cheating, by the way, because there’s no such thing as invisible dirt. In fact, the last time you were so exhausted that you fell asleep with your boots on when you didn’t have to, you were—I suppose it could’ve been Kirkwall, maybe, since we weren’t entirely sober. All right, I wasn’t entirely sober but you were fine. No, I was sober. Just feeling extra pleasant. But still, last time you were—” He stopped, and she could hear the rustle of his clothes as he crouched next to the bed to bring his face down to hers. “You aren’t, are you?”

Had her eyes been open, she would have rolled them. She did, however, open them and turn to see him. His panic and puzzlement was endearing. “Of course I’m not.”

He hopped onto the bed next to her, and then disappeared from her view as he set to work removing her boots. “You know, I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed.”

“We’ve discussed this.” Annoyed that she couldn’t see him, she rolled over. He didn’t acknowledge it, still tugging on her boot, but she went on. “Even though the augmented Joining potion from Avernus reversed or mitigated many of the downsides of being a Warden, including fertility, it doesn’t change the whole elven guilt about having elf-blooded children. That I have one is difficult enough, and now she’s shown that she has magic. If I had another—” She bit down on her words, not wanting to speak them lest she tempt any sort of fate, or give _Asha’belannar_ any more ideas. 

With a grunt of triumph, Malcolm freed her first boot and then flung it to the other side of the room. “I know,” he said as he went for the second boot. “I was joking. Mostly.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Mostly?”

“Yes, mostly. I’m being honest. If it was something that didn’t go against your beliefs, and something you wanted, I’d like another. Maybe two, I don’t know.” With another grunt, he sent her second boot following the first. Then he fell back to lie next to her. “In another situation, with both of us human or both of us elves, would you be opposed?”

Ever since they’d all discovered that the augmented potion had changed Warden fertility for the better, the subject of more children occasionally came up. But she couldn’t shake the views she’d been taught and had held since childhood. They were rules that kept the elves from dying out, and she didn’t feel like she should break them. Ava had been planned, but not by them. Only _Asha’belannar_ ’s interference had made Ava’s creation possible, along with some key missing information from a certain Warden-Commander. With Avernus’ potion, they’d been told quickly enough what could happen, which meant Líadan had taken the precautions she would’ve taken in the first place, had they not been Wardens. She was glad she did, because Alistair and Anora had proven soon enough that Warden fertility had improved when Anora had Callum. Yet, for Líadan, there were just some taboos she couldn’t break. Faced with an elf-blooded daughter having the Gift, she could see why they needed to exist. Malcolm understood, as well as he was able, and only a few times did he wander into this sort of speculation. She didn’t hold it against him, just as he didn’t hold her choices against her.

“I don’t know,” she said out loud. “I really didn’t _like_ carrying a child. My body didn’t move like it was supposed to, there were too many visits to the privy, my balance was off, and I couldn’t even walk properly close to the end.”

The bed shook with his laughs. “You waddled.”

“I did not.”

“Go on believing that, if you’d like.”

“I will. The point I’m making is that if our situation were different, you’d have to do some very good convincing for me to volunteer to have another.” She sighed and sat up, searching for where she’d put the light linen clothes she wore for bed. With as often as Ava had been sprinting to their room due to nightmares lately, it wasn’t like she could go to sleep without them. The clothes were on a chair on the far side of the room, and she grumbled as she got out of the bed to fetch them. When she returned, Malcolm had already changed into his loose linen trousers, and had apparently elected to go shirtless, because he liked to torture her like that. “That isn’t going to convince me,” she said. “Nice try, I’ll admit.”

He smiled. “No, no convincing. You indulge my flights of fancy, and that’s enough. I do think, however,” he said as he looked closely at her face, “that you’re too tired for anything right now, aside from sleeping.”

She wanted to argue. She did, because he was right there, looking all lovely and her eyes kept wandering to his broad shoulders, and she forced herself to not follow the lines of his body downward, and she had no idea how Marian Hawke had endured this sort of temptation with Sebastian every night. None. For Líadan, tiredness won out, both mental and physical, and nothing more than that. Once in bed, she did get as close to him as she could, enjoying the feel of his bare skin.

“So,” he said, managing to catch her right as she was about to fall asleep, “when do you want to talk about Ava?”

She squinted up at him, slightly annoyed at his timing. “Let me sleep on it. Even if I’m not ready to talk about it tomorrow, I will. You’re right. It needs to be discussed, and we’ll need to talk to Perran to get his opinion on what might be going on.”

“That’s fair,” he said with a nod. “Now, I say we get some sleep before the child in question drags us out of our pleasant dreams only to scare us with hers.”

“I was _almost_ asleep, you ass.” Even as she tried to sound irritated, she could only manage tired. And despite her words, she laid her head on his chest, reassuring herself with the steady rhythm of his heart.

His arm slipped around to her back and massaged between her shoulder blades, where knots often formed from using her bow. “It’s the only guaranteed way to get a direct answer from you. Means you’re too tired to prevaricate, and that your primary goal is to go to sleep, and not avoid a question.”

“You’re still an ass.” There was more, but she was too sleepy and Malcolm had already relaxed one knot and had moved to another and she didn’t want him to stop. “But I don’t care.”

He laughed quietly, and it rumbled through his chest. She fell asleep before he’d finished laughing.

In the Beyond, things weren’t so pleasant. Feynriel was there, almost like he’d been waiting for her to show up. Which was strange, when she thought about it, because he hadn’t visited for ages. The last time he’d visited, which had been a few years ago, he’d told her that she had always been hard to find, and he’d barely been able to find her then. She hadn’t seen him since.

And now he stood here. If the image of himself that she saw in the Beyond reflected any of what he was on Thedas, his features had become those of a grown man instead of the boy-like qualities they’d had before. It stood to reason he could be a spirit, but unless the spirit was rather bad at trickery, she’d never been able to tell right away.

“How were you able to find me?” she asked. 

“You were around the eluvian again,” he said. “Enough for it to let me find you this once.” He gave her a sheepish, yet subdued smile. “Well, it took more than a few days, but considering I hadn’t been able to find you at all before, it’s something.” Then his smile faded, and by the time the figure of her grandfather had come to stand beside him, Feynriel’s smile had gone.

Emrys had no smile at all.

Neither did Líadan. “Why are you here? Feynriel’s always been the one to speak with me here.”

“Not this time,” said Feynriel. After a long, sad look in her direction, he turned and walked away, leaving her alone with her grandfather.

His even expression had not changed. “You will not like what I have to say.”

“I rarely like what you have to say.” Yet, even when they disagreed—which was often—a comment like she’d just made would bring at least a hint of amusement to his eyes. 

This time, it failed to do so. He remained as somber as before, and when he spoke, his tone carried the same trait. “Your daughter is a Dreamer.”

“No.” The fear she’d felt when she’d first suspected Ava’s magic had nothing in comparison to the dread that now threatened to suffocate her. It couldn’t be possible that Ava was, not her—it couldn’t. Feynriel had spoken of his difficulties before he’d gone into proper training, and he’d been much older than Ava. “No,” she said again, fooling herself no more than she fooled Emrys. The demons, it would explain the demons and the nightmares. The guilt she carried twisted inside her, sending her stomach churning and her sense of self into dark places. If what her grandfather said was true— _it is_ , her instinct told her and she wanted to shove it away—not only had she denied the People another mage, but she had denied them a Dreamer. Then her abject fear for her daughter ousted the guilt, for the guilt meant nothing compared to what torment her daughter would face. If the Chantry ever discovered her, got their hands on her, or she didn’t get proper instruction, she would either die or be made Tranquil. “Tell me you’re wrong.”

The sympathy in his gaze told her the truth in ways his words never could, even as he said them. “I cannot.”

Líadan couldn’t begin to think of how she could protect her daughter, not for something like this. She couldn’t even think of what to say, the denial refusing to be said out loud.

Because Emrys understood, he continued the conversation for her. “Feynriel and I can protect her, for now. It cannot be sustained indefinitely, but we’ve some time to work with.” He took a step forward and hesitantly placed his hands on her shoulders, either to reassure her or rouse her from the dark spiral of her thoughts. “She can be saved.”

“How?” Fear enveloped her heart. Ava was her daughter, and she couldn’t see how she could save her.

“When the time comes, take Cáel and Ava and go to the Mahariel. Marethari would never turn you away, two human children or not. Find Merrill. Take her from Kirkwall and bring her with you. In as short a time as they can, the Ra’asiel clan will meet you where the Mahariel camp, and you will accompany Lanaya and her clan to where mine has located. The Suriel do not move as often as other clans, and to do this, we are quite distant from the rest of civilization.” He took his hands from where they rested on her shoulders, and then stepped back, awaiting her response.

She stared at him. “So, what you’re really saying is that you’re a malevolent spirit, because my grandfather would never agree to take in two human children, kin of his or not, much less teach one of them.”

If her accusation hurt him, his expression did not betray it. “She is a Dreamer. She is your daughter, and you are my granddaughter. My responsibility to guide her is far greater than the responsibility I had to teach Feynriel.” He seemed to be done, and then suddenly added one more thing: “And your human bondmate cannot accompany you.”

It was an effort, she believed, to make the deal appear more realistic. She wouldn’t fall for it. “Changing your terms doesn’t change what you are, spirit.” 

Pain at the distrust passed over his face, but he quickly regained the steady, composed presence of a Keeper. “ _Da’len_ , I have given this information to you, and with it, I have given you a path to refuge. It is up to you to choose what you do with it.” He paused to look around them at the formless Beyond, empty of wandering spirits aside from their own. Líadan couldn’t shrug off her suspicion, and Emrys noticed. “Your strength of will is to be commended. However, if you—”

Líadan was flung from the Beyond as she was torn from her slumber by an upset child crawling into her parents’ bed. The fog of sleep fled Líadan’s mind as she held her trembling child. She asked her what was wrong, and all Ava could get out was something about bad dreams.

Knowing exactly what sort of bad dreams they were, Líadan fought her own fearful trembling. She was a Dalish hunter, a Grey Warden, someone who fought the monstrous creatures that filled the nightmares of others, all without blinking in the face of it. Yet this nightmare was not of those creatures, and she had no defense against it. No matter how much she wanted to believe it had been a spirit—and not her grandfather—she’d spoken to in the Beyond, she couldn’t unravel the thread of truth woven into his words.

**Riordan**

The pitiful soul that had been the Grey Warden once known as Riordan fell to Corypheus’ assault rather quickly, the unfortunate man’s consciousness subsumed by the magister’s stronger one. He’d left the abominable Warden prison, the place where his lessers had manacled him for far too long. Now he wandered the meticulously built dwarven roads covered with rot and filth, which served as more evidence of his betrayal. These dwarven byways were as black and corrupted as the Golden City he had been promised.

Now he would get even. Now he had found his brother, as if he had been waiting for him, and they had much to do. Filthy though they were, the darkspawn would obey their commands, and they could be used. Mindless, yet biddable. It was enough.

“I know where the remaining gods sleep,” he said to his brother, his body as sickly and twisted as the one Corypheus had possessed when he’d been released. The body he now inhabited wasn’t much improved.

His brother, who forgotten his name, yet remembered his role as architect, would have lifted an eyebrow, if not for the golden mask that covered his eyes. “They must be awakened.”

“They will be tainted, as we are. They will destroy all those who dwell above us.”

“I do not care. I tried to save them. Each time, they rejected me. We will bring them to an end and rule the surface as it should be.”

“It can be done, yet first we must reach our remaining gods where they slumber beneath the rock. It will take time.” 

The Architect gave his assent. He understood, as Corypheus did.

Time, they had.

All the time they could ever need.


	10. Chapter 10

“A dream came upon me, as my daughter slumbered beneath my heart. It told of her life, and her betrayal, and her death.”

— _Spirit of Brona_

**Malcolm**

As Malcolm watched his two children attempt to pummel each other with wooden practice swords in the sparring ring—empty of Wardens this late in the afternoon—he realized they were more evenly matched than he’d previously seen. Which, he also noticed, brought no end of irritation to both children. While Ava seemed to be a hair faster, Cáel was stronger. It meant that when he managed to catch her unawares, she usually tumbled into the dirt, the grass, or the mud, depending on where in the ring she fell. Then she’d bounce back, angrier than before, and redouble her efforts. Her goal, as it was obvious to Malcolm, was to knock her brother onto his own backside. Sitting across from him on the top rung of the fence, Líadan had already pressed her lips into a line as she braced for Ava to either triumph over her brother, collapse into a helpless heap of frustration, or entirely let loose her anger. No matter which, there would probably be tears. 

The past month had been a pleasant break from the appearance of tears, with Cáel having been decent to his sister most of the time, and Ava’s nightmares having faded to none at all. Sadly, there was no chance of it continuing for the months to come. Malcolm well knew that Cáel and Ava only had so much control when it came to being constantly nice to each other. Malcolm remembered that he and Fergus had been the same way growing up, and still weren’t above such behavior, even as adults.

“I think,” Nuala said quietly from near the door to the compound, “when she blows up this time, we might have to use one of Shianni’s terms to describe it.”

Malcolm glanced back at her. “You mean the one where she says that she’s lost her sodding shit?”

“That’s the one.”

“Yeah, I think that’s where we’re headed.” Then he returned to watching the sparring, just in time to see Ava get under Cáel’s guard, get a foot on his instep, and pivot to finally throw him. Malcolm started to think they might get through the rest of the day without tears or bloodshed, after all. Which meant Cáel then swung wildly with his sword as he tried to keep his balance, and landed a lucky hit that caught Ava’s unsteady shoulder, which promptly knocked her into the only patch of mud in the yard.

Cáel, to his credit, looked mortified instead of triumphant, because he certainly well knew that the point should have gone to Ava. 

“Sovereign says she decks him,” Fergus said from his seat next to Malcolm.

On the belief that maybe, _maybe_ Cáel would choose to avoid a fight, just once, Malcolm took the bet. “All right. Maybe Cáel won’t be so stubborn.”

“Right, and tomorrow the Chantry will accept mabari into the priesthood.”

“You never know.”

Fergus chuckled softly, to which Malcolm grumbled under his breath.

“I’m starting to think he got more of the Theirin luck than she did,” said Nuala. “And that he likes to push that luck.”

Malcolm sighed, mostly because it seemed that Nuala was entirely right. Ava had also inherited tempers from both sides, and while it took a while to kindle, it showed at once as a roaring fire. Her practice sword forgotten, Ava ripped off her padded arming cap and threw it on the ground next to her wooden sword. Then she pushed herself to her feet and advanced toward her brother. 

Cáel removed his arming cap and nothing else, and seemed torn over whether to retreat or stand his ground against his younger sister. 

Cheeks flushed rosy from exertion and most certainly anger, Ava yanked off her gloves and tossed them behind her.

“Oh, gloves off. Time to intervene.” Malcolm slid from his perch on the fence and started toward the children. Ava had moved well beyond her ability to keep her temper, and her fists had balled up as she closed in on Cáel. She didn’t seem set on physical violence, however, because Malcolm felt the tingle of magic and knew it wasn’t from Líadan. Which, really, was far more worrisome than a fistfight. 

“Please don’t hit your brother with lightning,” he said to her once he was within range to catch either of them by the shirt, or to smite, if absolutely necessary. Líadan had promised not to kill him if he had to smite their daughter, but she hadn’t discounted other methods of retaliation should a smite occur. Added that Malcolm really didn’t want to smite any child, much less his own, the current situation had him praying that he wouldn’t need to do it.

Ava’s reply was courteous enough to inform her father that she had, indeed, lost her temper. “It won’t kill him.”

Of course she would think that a perfectly reasonable response. “It would still hurt. And lightning can kill. I’ve seen your mother use it to kill darkspawn.” Along with templars and bandits and all sorts of Thedas’ unsavory, but his six-year-old didn’t need to know that.

“Can I hit darkspawn with lightning?” She did, at least, stop advancing on her brother.

“I’d prefer you’d run away if you see darkspawn.”

“ _You_ don’t run away when you see darkspawn.”

“That’s because I’m a Grey Warden. You aren’t. You’re six. Why am I even having this conversation with you? Look, no hitting anything or anyone with lightning. Ever.”

Her lips turned down slightly in her disappointment, even as she angrily flicked away a hank of hair that had blown into her eyes. Then she looked up at him and asked, “Ever?”

Her mother’s child, through and through, he decided. “Not unless you’re being attacked by something that could kill you, _and_ you can’t run away. Your brother, to reiterate, doesn’t count as said attacker.”

A sigh, one sounding as distinctly haughty as a small boy could muster, came from Cáel’s direction. When Malcolm looked over at his son, he found him standing with his chin held high and arms crossed determinedly over his chest. “She can’t hurt me,” said Cáel.

“That,” Líadan said from the other side of the practice yard, “was all Morrigan.”

Malcolm certainly couldn’t deny that one. While Cáel didn’t resemble Morrigan physically, taking after his Theirin side instead, there were moments when he said or did things that were distinctly similar to his natural mother. It wasn’t often when he got indignantly haughty, but in the times he did, it made both Malcolm and Líadan mostly fondly remember Morrigan. Mostly.

Cáel sighed. “She can’t, really. Not yet. Spell isn’t strong enough.”

Líadan raised an eyebrow at him as she strode across the yard toward them. “Just how do you know that?”

Apparently stricken by a moment of sibling solidarity, Cáel glanced at Ava, and then looked quickly away. “Guessed.” 

Today wouldn’t be a tattling day, it seemed. Malcolm figured he should be more grateful for it than he felt, but the mystery of Ava’s magic needed solving. And if she was using magic outside her lessons, or when he or Líadan weren’t around, then it needed to be stopped. But to stop it, the happenstance needed to be acknowledged.

Líadan had already knelt in front of Ava, placing ungloved hands on her slim shoulders. “What happened?”

Fright sapped the color from her cheeks, her disagreement with her brother as long forgotten as the wooden practice sword at her feet. Her small foot scuffed at the trampled grass as she studied the ground. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Didn’t mean to what?”

Ava shrugged and kept her eyes on the grass.

Líadan moved one of her hands and tucked a finger under Ava’s chin, gently drawing her daughter’s head upward to meet her eyes. “You need to tell me what happened.” Despite the firmness of her words, there was no anger behind them, only concern.

“It was my fault,” said Cáel. “We were playing hide and seek with Dane, and Ava was ‘it,’ and I caught her by surprise before she could find me. I know you aren’t supposed to surprise mages, but I forgot that she was one, right until then. She yelped and hit me with lightning. Just a little! Didn’t really hurt. But it wasn’t her fault. I shouldn’t have scared her.”

As Cáel talked, Ava had moved closer to Líadan, ducking into the protective space within her mother’s arms. The burning Malcolm had thought he’d left behind after the calm of the past month returned to his chest. He glanced worriedly over at the main part of the palace he could see just beyond the roof of the compound, and then looked at his son. “Did Dane see?”

Cáel looked absolutely stricken, swallowing several times as he tried not to say what he knew he had to. “Yes.”

There was a thump as Fergus slid from the fence to plant his feet on the ground. Readying himself, Malcolm knew. He wished he were wearing more than a brigandine, but one really didn’t require full armor to give arms lessons to small children. “When?” he asked Cáel.

“Right before we ate at midday.”

It was nearly suppertime, which meant there was no possible way Alistair and Anora did not know. Which meant that at any time, one of them, probably Alistair, would be paying a visit.

He wasn’t wrong. Barely minutes had gone by—minutes spent with Nuala cursing, Líadan helping a quaking Ava out of her practice padding, Cáel doing the same with his own padding, Fergus pacing along the fence, and Malcolm scrabbling for a single way to make sure their lives wouldn’t be irrevocably changed—before the door from the compound opened. It shut quietly, and then Malcolm recognized Alistair’s footsteps.

“Malcolm, Dane told me—” Whatever Alistair had been about to say went unsaid when he reached the fence and saw his niece and Líadan. “Maker, I’m sorry.”

Malcolm traded looks with Fergus, who was next to the fence and within reach of Alistair, and then Fergus grabbed Alistair’s wrist. It was just in case Alistair had strange ideas about which meant more, family or kingdom. Revas growled lowly from her spot next to Nuala.

With shock and hurt in his eyes, Alistair slowly looked down at Fergus’ hand, and then over at Malcolm. “I’m not here to take her, and there’s no one coming for her, either. Maker’s blood, she’s my niece. I’m not going to just pick her up and throw her to the Chantry.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because we have to figure out what to do. They were playing in the palace, within earshot of ten different guards and staff. We don’t know how many heard or saw, or if any did at all. We think no one did, because there aren’t any templars banging on the palace gate and demanding entrance, but we can’t know for sure. But you and I both know that it’s only a matter of time before something gets back to them. Days or weeks, at best. We need to strategize, and quickly.”

“That last part sounds like something Anora would say,” said Fergus.

“It _is_ what Anora said. She’s keeping Dane entertained to prevent him from accidentally telling anyone else.”

After a nod, Fergus let him go.

Maybe there was a chance, then, thought Malcolm. The need to strategize meant they weren’t automatically expecting Ava to be handed to the templars. Maybe Cauthrien’s last report on the status of Ferelden’s army and navy had been remarkably good, meaning they could risk thumbing their collective noses at the Chantry, and more importantly, not be asked to turn Ava over.

“Uncle Alistair,” Ava said from where she hadn’t moved from Líadan’s arms, “am I going to be taken away?”

“No,” said Líadan. “Never.”

“Absolutely not,” said Malcolm.

“Of course not,” said Fergus.

Alistair said nothing.

His brother, his very own brother, said _nothing_ , and the tiny hope Malcolm had let live shriveled and died. It wouldn’t be so much a strategy meeting as it would be a negotiation. He wanted to hit his brother. Hard. Many times, because this was family and decent people didn’t even begin to think about handing their own nieces or nephews over to the Chantry when they knew exactly what could go wrong in the Circle. But he didn’t hit Alistair, because the example he’d be setting for his children by hitting his brother while outside the sparring ring would be a bad one. He didn’t hit Alistair, because Cáel and Ava were already going through enough, and to see their father hit their uncle in earnest would make everything that much harder to understand.

Fergus didn’t let the silence go unchecked. “No answer is the same as condoning it, Your Majesty.” His steady look toward the King—normally as close as a brother to him, but his use of Alistair’s title signaled that it might not remain so—gave no quarter. “You might want to rethink your lack of one.”

Alistair blinked, as if the idea hadn’t crossed his mind. Then he turned from Fergus to answer Ava directly. “I’d never send you to the Chantry or give you to the templars. Not ever, I promise. I was just… I was trying to think of a way to resolve this and I kind of got caught up in my thoughts. I still don’t think anyone else saw, because I think we’d have seen the templars by now, but I don’t want to risk being wrong about that. It would get… messy.”

“You mean bloody,” said Cáel. “There would be a fight. A real one.”

“Yes,” said Alistair.

“People could die.”

Malcolm shifted in discomfort at Cáel’s statements, but addressed them. “Yes.”

“I don’t want anyone to die,” said Ava. Which, given the murderous intentions Ava had shown toward her own brother earlier, seemed a bit disingenuous. Since she was only six, Malcolm gave her a pass and did not mention it.

“Neither do we,” said Alistair. “That’s why we’re trying to come up with other ways.”

“And why you and Cáel are going to stay here in the compound until we know the templars aren’t coming for you,” said Malcolm.

Alistair hopped the fence and started toward the center of the practice yard, from where Líadan and Ava hadn’t yet moved. Halfway to them, Alistair stopped. “You all right if I come closer?” he asked Ava.

“I think so,” she said.

Malcolm felt a little better. Normally, Ava and Alistair shared a good relationship, and seeing her even remotely afraid of her uncle was unsettling.

Alistair looked over at Líadan, who’d yet to budge from where she crouched, her arms still encircling her daughter. “You aren’t going to… do anything to me, are you?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Not in front of the children, I won’t.” Mostly, Malcolm could see, she was kidding. But the threat was there, too. Either of the children were more important to her than Alistair, and she wouldn’t hesitate to use force to stop him if he ever became a threat to them. Despite wishing he didn’t, Malcolm felt the same way.

“You’re more than a little scary right now,” said Alistair.

“With good reason, Your Majesty,” said Nuala. Her use of Alistair’s title while in private said as much as Fergus’ decision to do so—Alistair somehow held the potential of being a threat, and they used titles to put distance between them and him.

“I know that,” said Alistair. “Doesn’t stop me from being scared.”

After giving Alistair a long look, Líadan moved her arms back to give Ava the choice about approaching her uncle. Alistair crouched down to Ava’s level. The little girl hadn’t yet moved as she fixed Alistair with nearly the same measured look her mother had given him. “You’re the King,” she said, sounding remarkably solemn. “Can’t you stop them?”

“I’ll use every bit of my kingly power to do so,” said Alistair. What the other adults knew, and Alistair didn’t say, was that his power as king might not be enough. 

His answer mollified Ava, and she darted over to give Alistair a hug. She let go rather quickly, and then stepped backward until she bumped into Líadan, who had stood up. Líadan put her hands on Ava’s shoulders, and that seemed to reassure her.

Alistair nodded, and then straightened to his full height. “Let’s meet in my study within the hour. Sooner the better, but I know you’ll need… time to arrange things, in case everything goes pear-shaped.” Then he left as quietly as he’d appeared, the seriousness of the situation dampening even Alistair’s spirits.

“This is bad, isn’t it?” Cáel asked after the door closed. “And don’t lie to me because I’m a kid. It isn’t like I can’t see what’s going on. It’s worse if you don’t tell me.”

“It’s bad,” said Malcolm.

Cáel looked to Líadan for confirmation. 

She nodded. 

At first, he seemed calm as he took in their answers, but then his face fell. “Maybe you should have lied.”

With one hand guiding Ava in front of her, Líadan used her other hand to draw Cáel to her side. She gently squeezed his shoulder as he leaned against her, using her as a crutch as he limped along with the realization that nothing would be the same as it was. “We need to get both of you inside the compound,” she said as she brought them toward the door. 

“The Wardens will protect me?” asked Ava. 

“Of course they will,” said Malcolm. “They’re family.” Then he picked her up, not caring if any mud got on his brigandine. She wound her arms around his neck and let her head drop to his shoulder, her hair just barely touching his chin. She smelled like dirt and grass and a rainy day that had sunshine at the end and maybe a little like wet dog. She was his daughter and he’d be damned if he let the templars take her.

Cáel hadn’t moved from Líadan’s side, even as they stood in the corridor leading to the compound’s main hall. He’d grabbed one of his mother’s hands, and though he held still, his grip was tight enough to blanch his knuckles white. 

Bethany and Perran appeared at the end of the corridor, Oghren right behind them.

“I saw Alistair come in,” said Bethany, “and then leave, and he looked—”

“Like he’d eaten the arse-end of a bronto and was trying to keep it down,” said Oghren. “He only gets that look about one thing, and that’s about them templars. We going to fight ‘em again? I’ll go sharpen my axe.”

“Alistair knows,” said Malcolm.

“Big sodding deal. He’s her uncle. No problem there.” When none of them agreed, Oghren’s eyebrows crept upward. “Do I need to set the pike-twirler’s priorities straight?”

“No, not this time,” said Líadan. “It was a close thing, but you won’t need your axe for him.”

“I take it the templars aren’t out of the question?”

“Not yet,” said Malcolm. “Líadan, Fergus, and I need to meet with Alistair and Anora to figure out where to go from here. Alistair doesn’t think the Chantry knows, mostly because they haven’t showed up. Since it’s so soon, it’s probably better safe than sorry. So, don’t let any templars in, or even any Chantry representatives at all.”

“We’ll guard the nuglets like they were our own,” said Oghren. “Where’s that big sodding dog of yours, elf?”

Revas nosed through the crowd of people, Nuala right behind her. “I’ll watch over them,” she said to Malcolm and Líadan. Then she motioned to both children. “Come on. We’ll go find some heartwarming books in the library. Then we can eat supper with the Wardens.” Cáel switched from holding Líadan’s hand to holding Nuala’s, and then Ava slid from Malcolm’s arms to take Nuala’s other hand while Revas stayed right next to the children. Perran went to step toward them, and then paused to trade a silent look with Líadan before he trailed after Nuala and the children.

Malcolm and Líadan watched them go up to the stairs, and didn’t leave the compound until the children were out of their sight. Just in case.

“It’s hard, leaving them to be protected by others,” said Fergus as they walked through the compound’s storeroom.

As he opened the door leading to the palace proper, it took Malcolm a second to see where his brother was going with it, because the pain of event in question had faded over the years. “ _Maker_ , Fergus. Why don’t you just hit me over the head next time?”

“I simply meant that I understand, and I think they’ll be all right. They’ve got Wardens protecting them in a Warden stronghold, and it isn’t like the Wardens aren’t able to be suspicious of everyone, even when it doesn’t warrant it, but especially when it does. The compound is better protected than Highever, and if you could get to the Vigil, no one would ever to be able to—you know what I mean.” Though Fergus had dropped his voice when they crossed into the palace, he gave up on specifics the moment the first guard came into view. By the time they passed the first servant, they’d resorted to silence for fear of letting anything slip. Malcolm was grateful to have Fergus there with them, for both his level-minded, steady presence, and his ability to reassure both of them even when there was little reassurance to be had. Also, because he was his brother, and though Líadan was only his sister-in-law, he treated her as a sister all the same.

“No matter what happens, little sister,” Fergus said to Líadan as they prepared to enter the King’s study, “the children will be kept safe.”

Líadan gave Fergus a look that conveyed what Malcolm felt, as well. They wanted to believe what Fergus said to be true, but couldn’t see how it could happen.

Then the meeting started poorly. Once the door had closed, no one, not even Anora, sat down. For the first few minutes, not one of them spoke. 

Before the silence strangled them, Anora cleared her throat and took the initiative. “Standing here and gazing at our navels will not change what must be discussed. I will be honest: if we cannot find a suitable refuge, we may have to consider the Circle.” No satisfaction appeared in her eyes when she made the pronouncement. Instead, there was a kind of regret Malcolm couldn’t recall ever seeing in his sister-in-law. Even then, he had to remind himself that Anora was human, and that she and Alistair did have to consider the kingdom’s well-being in addition to any of their family.

Still, it rankled.

“Then we had better find one,” said Fergus, giving Anora a none-too-pleased look. “I have no problem with them staying at Highever. None at all.”

Anora shook her head. “Like anywhere in Ferelden, once the Chantry discovered any noble or royalty harboring a known apostate mage, they would come. A few templars at first, and then when they are turned away, they will send more. Then they will send Seekers. We have seen for ourselves that they are willing to start a war over the fate of one apostate. Highever has already suffered for it. They cannot be allowed to do so again.”

“That’s my decision to make. My people would be willing to make the sacrifice. Malcolm grew up there. He’s family, and so are his wife and children.” Fergus gave Alistair a pointed look. “Family means a great deal in Highever, and Highever’s banns and freeholders will do whatever they can to keep them safe.”

Despite his brother’s words, Malcolm knew the teyrnir would ultimately fall. There would be a siege. A siege would mean crops would rot in the fields instead of being harvested, if they even had the chance to plant them at all. The Bannorn had only recently begun to produce as much grain as they had before the Blight. For the Coastlands to halt their own production would be detrimental to the entire country. There would be no surplus to sell, which meant Ferelden’s coffers would remain just barely sufficient. Whatever grain the Bannorn would be able to spare for the besieged Coastlands might not even make it through whatever lines the templars would set up. Eventually, the Chantry would win the fight. “They would,” Malcolm said out loud, “but I can’t see putting them through that when we would lose, in the end. Highever isn’t the Vigil, and no matter how strong the rebuilt castle is, it would eventually fall.”

Fergus leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. “Then the palace,” he said after a moment of glaring at the floor. “It can withstand the sort of siege Highever cannot.”

“It would bring the Chantry down on all Ferelden, and Ferelden cannot stand against them,” said Anora. “The Circle—”

Líadan bristled from where she stood next to Malcolm. When she spoke, her tone was firm, yet held the note of anger ready to be loosed. “I am not sending my daughter to be kept prisoner by a barbaric shemlen institution.”

Malcolm had opened his mouth to add his own dissent, but snapped it shut after hearing Líadan. She hadn’t used the word _shemlen_ in a very long time. He looked over at her in surprise.

She met his gaze, but her eyes held no apologies. “I won’t.”

“Then we are at an impasse,” said Anora.

Alistair kept looking between his brother and Líadan, as if searching for a cleverly hidden compromise. “I don’t much like the Chantry’s stance on mages, but—”

“If you end that statement with anything about handing your niece over, then you like them well enough,” said Malcolm.

“You can’t hide her abilities for any longer than you already have, and neither can we. The Chantry will notice. And unless we’re prepared as a country to break away from the Chantry—”

“Then do that!” Malcolm refused to feel bad about the shout. “Do it. It’s been coming for ages. No one will be surprised. Most would cheer.”

“I can’t. _We_ can’t.” Alistair’s eyes held a pleading desperation—a wish for a thing while knowing it out of reach. “We haven’t the armies. Ferelden is still weak, even now, and you know that. We’re lucky Orlais hasn’t swooped down and scooped us up. Cauthrien believes we’ll be ready in another couple of years. Then we can talk serious plans of doing what we can to protect our own in the ways we see fit. But that time isn’t now.”

“If we go to war with the Chantry,” said Anora, “the outcome would be the same. Orlais would rule over Ferelden once again.”

“Besides, even if we could, Ava would still need to be trained. And Líadan, I’m sorry to say, isn’t strong enough to do so. Ava’s connection to the Fade is too powerful, from what I felt.”

“There are capable teachers other than those found in your Circles of Magi,” said Líadan. “Perran and Bethany have already been helping.”

Alistair sighed. “But they aren’t teachers, not like fully harrowed Circle enchanters are trained to be.”

Líadan’s dark look toward Alistair wasn’t missed by anyone in the room.

“What about Senior Enchanter Wynne?” Fergus asked before Líadan directly engaged Alistair in an argument about Dalish Firsts and Keepers. “She’s had plenty of apprentices, and has taught classes.”

Malcolm shook his head. “She’d tell us to hand Ava to the Circle.”

“You can’t be sure of that,” said Alistair. “She’s an Aequitarian, not a Loyalist.”

“That doesn’t matter. She handed her newborn son to the Chantry right after she gave birth to him,” said Líadan.

“I think her son was more taken from her than given away, so—”

Anora stepped in between them. “Squabbling over these details gets us nowhere. We are looking for an equitable solution. If we are to move on, what we must do is acknowledge that such a solution is not available within Ferelden.”

“I don’t want them to leave Ferelden.” Alistair seemed truly despondent as he said it.

“At this point, I believe our collective hands are tied on the matter, Alistair,” said Anora.

She was right. And while Malcolm didn’t like their limited options, either, they did at least have Hildur’s offer in reserve. “So we’ll go to the Wardens. Get assigned to one of their fortresses for however long it takes Ferelden to finish building up the army. A few years abroad, and then we can come home.” It wasn’t his favorite solution, but it seemed the best they’d get. Maybe it wouldn’t be a terrible thing to travel for a little while. It would help the children gain more understanding of Thedas as a whole instead of only experiencing Ferelden.

“The Wardens don’t have any mages who happen to be Dreamers,” Líadan said in a remarkably subdued voice, given her earlier tone.

Alistair frowned. “I thought the only Dreamers known to be alive right now are Feynriel and Keeper Emrys. Why would you bring it up?” But there was enough willful disbelief within his question to indicate that he probably had a good idea about the answer.

Malcolm did have a good idea about it and he didn’t want to hear it, yet he had to, because covering his ears was childish, and wouldn’t change reality.

“Because a Dreamer is the only mage who can properly instruct another Dreamer,” said Líadan.

“But there aren’t any Dreamers in the Wardens, or in the Circle, or Ferelden at all,” said Alistair.

“It seems,” said Anora, “that there is now one in Ferelden who requires not only refuge from the Chantry, but a qualified teacher, as well.”

Alistair did not hide his look of panic. “Which you can’t find here, or anywhere, really.”

Silence settled in as each of them avoided looking at each other. To look each other in the eye would mean acknowledging that the situation was far worse than any of them had really believed it could be.

Then Líadan said, “I’m bringing her to the Dalish.”

“How?” asked Fergus. “I thought a Dalish clan wouldn’t allow any humans, even children.”

“Marethari is stubborn and stuck in her ways, but she wouldn’t turn us away. Then we should be able to contact another clan, and we can travel with them to find Emrys and the Suriel.”

Alistair raised his eyebrows. “Would he take her? I didn’t think the Dalish—your grandfather in particular—were in the habit of teaching human mages, even if her mother happens to be Dalish.”

“Emrys will agree if I bring her and…” Her jaw trembled, belying the tenuous grip she had on remaining outwardly calm. “And if Malcolm doesn’t.”

Malcolm stared at her, his mouth dry.

“You mean bring her there, right?” asked Alistair. “Ask the favor, stay for a visit, and then come back? Afterwards, the visits continue, because you’d both have to see her, and Cáel can’t not see his sister. Maybe the Suriel could even camp close to Ferelden—”

“No,” said Líadan.

As soon as Líadan had brought up the probability of Ava’s rare talent, Malcolm had known this would be the result.

Alistair, however, had not been as clued in. “No?”

“I would be expected to stay.”

Alistair’s bewildered gaze shifted from Líadan to Malcolm and back. “How long?”

“The duration of Ava’s training, which would extend through her childhood.”

Malcolm’s eyes widened. He’d expected lengthy, but not that. “It would really take that long?”

She looked up at him, her expression filled with a sad truth. “Training a strong mage the Dalish way is no small undertaking.” Then she broke eye contact in favor of looking at the others, probably because it was slightly less painful. “Technically, Merrill, who is my age, was still a student when she was exiled, and she’d been Marethari’s apprentice since she was four. Perran had been an apprentice since he was eight, and only once he became a Keeper with the Dalish Wardens did he leave it. With Ava being a Dreamer… I can’t begin to predict how long training would be for her, aside from long and involved.”

“So you would be leaving for pretty much forever is what you’re saying,” said Fergus.

She nodded, and Fergus let his head bump against the wall behind him as he took to studying the ceiling, muttering under his breath as he did.

“And there are no other instructors?” asked Anora.

“If they are, they’re in Tevinter, which makes it less than an option,” said Líadan.

Fergus ceased his study of the ceiling to engage in the conversation again. “What about Cáel? It couldn’t be good for him to lose his sister and the only mother he’s ever known.”

Malcolm’s mind kept shouting _what about me?_ But his concern over his son, much like the same concern over his daughter, drowned out his unspoken pleas. “If the Chantry had even the slightest suspicion that Ava was taken to the Dalish because she’s a mage, they would come after Cáel. It isn’t like they haven’t already proven they’re willing to use a flimsy excuse for it before.” He knew it, they knew it, and he was certain Morrigan would say the same. He also damn well knew Morrigan would be advocating for the same incredibly painful course of action. She had proven her will and ability to do so when she’d left Cáel behind in capable hands when she’d gone through the eluvian. For Cael’s safety, Morrigan would wish for him to go with Líadan and Ava. Malcolm couldn’t even imagine what Morrigan would do if the Chantry got their hands on Cáel, nor would Morrigan’s response be much different if the Chantry got Líadan. Though Morrigan often denied the connections she had to a select few, she did have them, and she guarded them fiercely.

“I wish I could disagree, but after what happened with Malcolm and the Chantry years ago, I can easily see it happening again.” Alistair gave Malcolm a level look. “I’m surprised you brought it up, because that means—”

“I know what it means.” Every word of the sentence tasted bitter, and sounded the same. “But the life and happiness of my children are more important than my own.”

“I’m sorry.” The resolution had gone from Líadan’s voice, leaving sorrow in its wake.

He shook his head, his mind too much a mess to say anything properly.

Before the silence stretched onward again, Anora asked, “How will this be done?”

Fergus cursed once before he said, “It’ll have to look like Líadan’s leaving him.”

Malcolm practically whipped his head around to Fergus. “What? But I wouldn’t—she wouldn’t—”

At the same time, Líadan said, “No, I wouldn’t—”

“I _know_ you wouldn’t,” Fergus snapped, not unaffected by the turmoil. “Maker’s blood, I’m not an idiot. I know you’d never, neither one of you, but not everyone knows you as well as we do. If you want any chance for the templars to not catch on very quickly, they’ll have to think Líadan’s left for a reason other than shielding two children from the Chantry.”

“What do you propose?” asked Anora, somehow still shrewdly able to move their developing plans forward. Out of all of them, she had always been the best at being able to separate emotion from logic when it came to governing. It was a strength, and a necessary one, but Malcolm found it hard not to feel some resentment.

Fergus rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand before he dove in. “The Chantry’s headed by Orlesians, we all know that. Like anyone else, Orlesians love stories, and they’re especially fond of salacious stories involving nobility. Take that, and then add that we all have prejudices, even if we’d like to deny them. Those prejudices would allow for certain actions to be easily believed.”

Malcolm could see where Fergus was going and he did not like it at all.

“This is going back to my being Dalish, isn’t it?” asked Líadan.

“While Ferelden has been more open to viewing elves to be as civilized as humans or dwarves,” said Anora, “even that openness has limits. One such limit is that the viewpoint does not extend beyond city elves to Dalish elves.”

“People still tell stories. Not good ones,” said Alistair.

“You mean how we prey upon hapless wanderers? Abduct naughty human children? Or are you talking about the stories where we practice dark magic and offer human sacrifices to our pagan gods?”

Alistair studied his feet instead of looking at Líadan. “Maybe some of those.”

“Still?”

“It has much to do with the mystery,” said Anora. “What one cannot see often becomes what one fears. Coupled with the story the Chantry tells of the Fall of the Dales, the fear many humans have of the Dalish is understandable.”

“The Chantry _started_ that war.” Before Anora could muster a defense, Líadan flung the truth at her and the rest of the humans in the room like rocks from a hunter’s sling. “Like Tevinter did to Arlathan and _Elvhenan_ , Orlais did to the Halamshiral and the Dales. My people isolated themselves from humanity so we could regain the old ways. Our borders were protected by the Emerald Knights, who initially did not use violence to keep out humans. They were told of our disinterest in trade or diplomatic ties, and yet they continued pushing, in greater and greater numbers. So they sent missionaries instead of traders. The missionaries were thrown out. Then they heard we were worshipping our Creators instead of their Maker, and they began spreading lies among the border towns and villages—that we abducted children and sacrificed them to the Creators. Lies you humans apparently still believe today. Then came the templars. With them came the allegations of atrocities committed against the humans at Red Crossing, and they finally got their war. My people wanted to be left alone, and the Chantry wouldn’t grant us even that.”

“I don’t dispute your account,” Anora said, her demeanor still calm, and surprisingly not defensive. “Yet, how many have heard that version? The Dalish, and perhaps some of the city elves. In other words, not enough, and the Chantry’s version is what many see as the truth. They know no other, nor will they hear it if told.”

“It means most humans are afraid the Dalish wouldn’t think twice about doing the same again,” said Fergus. His regret came across in his soft tone, but didn’t change the truth in it.

“We aren’t the danger,” said Líadan.

Malcolm very carefully did not look over at Líadan, because he _knew_ what Líadan had done on the very same day that had ended with her becoming a Grey Warden—she and her hunting partner, Tamlen, had killed three humans they’d come across in the Brecilian Forest.

It wasn’t fair for him to judge based solely on that, not with the additional details he had. The reasons she’d given for killing those humans were, in retrospect, very good ones, and based on a long history that Líadan had just explained. For every human who was permitted to leave came templars in return, which would inevitably result in elves being killed or driven away. It had happened so often, and for so long, that it was hard to argue against the actions Líadan and Tamlen had taken that day. Malcolm knew that, and yet part of him still wasn’t entirely comfortable with it, possibly because other hunters in her clan had nearly killed him and those with him on the same day.

“We know you aren’t the danger,” said Fergus. “But others won’t have known the Dalish as well as we have. So they’d see the Dalish not as civilized people, but as wild.” He held up his hands at Líadan’s glare. “Their words, not mine, and those same people would believe that the wild nature wouldn’t just go away after, say, becoming a Warden or spending a significant amount of time around humans. In the end, those people would easily believe a Dalish elf having an argument with her human spouse, and then retaliating by taking the children and returning to the Dalish.”

Fergus’ idea had gone exactly where Malcolm thought it would. “So, what you’re saying is that I do something stupid, and then try to right things and end up making it worse.” Which, considering, wasn’t out of the question. It’d already happened plenty of times during their relationship, but they’d always managed to work things out. “And instead of staying and letting me try to fix it, Líadan gets fed up, takes the kids, and goes back to the Dalish. Meanwhile, I’m left behind to think about what I did to lose what I had.”

“That is an awful story,” Alistair said to Fergus. “And not them, not really.”

“To people who _know_ Malcolm and Líadan, it isn’t,” said Fergus. “Sure, he’s said enough stupid things and done enough stupid things, but he always figures out how to make things better. While none of us would deny Líadan having a temper, each one of us knows she’ll sit or stand patiently and listen to whatever explanation or apology Malcolm has—to be honest, out of anyone, Líadan has the most patience with him. But other people don’t know that like we do. If rumors can be started and spread, then the unwitting gossipmongers will have most everyone believing it, especially foreigners.”

The stillness in Anora’s face said much about the discontent she had with the entire situation, even though she hadn’t spoken it out loud. “Incredibly painful a plan to implement aside, it is a cover that will not last forever.”

“No, but it’ll give Líadan and the children a head start.” Fergus waved his arm toward the north. “Maybe they’ll get not just to the Dalish, but all the way to her grandfather, and the Chantry will never find them.”

“Right, but neither would Malcolm.” Alistair grimaced as he said it, and then looked at Líadan. “Would he be able to visit? Ever?”

Her brows drew together. “Maybe. If the Chantry isn’t actively looking or is distracted, then I think Emrys could be convinced. While he wouldn’t agree to a human living with the clan who wasn’t either a Dreamer or the blood of _Asha’belannar_ , I don’t think he’d be completely opposed to visits. But it would be years before…” Her eyes became distant as the realization hit. “Creators, it could be years.”

“It sounds better than not at all,” said Alistair, “but it’s still awful.”

“The Crown will have to act like it is conducting a search,” said Anora. “If we do not, the Chantry would think us complicit. Seekers would be sent again to gain their answers. Perhaps if we put Kennard in charge of a supposed search, he could lead the Chantry on a merry chase.”

“He’d agree?” asked Fergus.

“He would do anything to protect the children,” said Anora. “His employ is the Crown, but his service has always been to them. He would do it, and gladly.”

“And what about Dane? He’s too honest a boy for him not to mention what he saw, even if he means it innocently.”

“We’ll have to convince him that it was a trick of light,” said Alistair. “I bet Bethany could conjure something up that would convince any non-mage. ”

Anora’s eyes had narrowed as she went over their strategy in her head, examining it from every angle in order to uncover and repair the faults. “Nuala will have to remain behind. Líadan leaving with the children as well as their nurse wouldn’t ring quite as true to such a tale.”

“If she went,” said Alistair, “it wouldn’t be fair to Dane and Callum, either. Losing their aunt and their cousins already, and then to lose their favorite nurse.”

_Meanwhile_ , Malcolm thought _, I’m losing everything in the name of keeping them safe and alive_. But he said nothing of it to anyone, unwilling to complain when there wasn’t a viable alternative to offer.

“How much are you going to tell to Cáel and Ava?” Fergus asked.

Líadan pressed her lips into a firm line, an obvious effort to stay in control. “Nothing until after we’ve left.”

“You should…” Anora started to say to Líadan, and then she hesitated. 

Hesitated. Malcolm stared at her, roused from his own troubled thoughts. Anora never hesitated when she spoke. 

She shook herself, almost imperceptibly, and managed to go on. “You should leave as quickly as you are able. Unfortunately, the longer you stay, the higher the chance of discovery before you can get away.”

Líadan gave them the pronouncement as she looked out the window. “We’ll be leaving tomorrow, just after first light.” 

Fergus sighed and glanced over at the door. “I’ll go speak with Nuala and try to find Shianni. See what we can rustle up for trustworthy gossips.”

“Trustworthy gossips?” asked Alistair. “How would that even work?”

“The Warden compound’s entire staff. They’re the best example of trustworthy gossips anywhere,” said Malcolm. “They would never do anything to hurt the Wardens. They never reveal Warden secrets. They also do not reveal secrets held by Wardens, even if the secrets have nothing to do with the Order. But anything deemed harmless gossip—such as who was found in whose bed or what couple had the most recent shouting match—is considered fair game. They’re also incredibly loyal to the Wardens and their families, if they have them. They—”

“They’ve known about Ava,” said Líadan. It was, really, the most succinct argument any of them could have made for the loyalty of the compound’s staff. If any of them had leaked the information, the templars would’ve been knocking at the compound’s door weeks ago.

“I suppose that takes care of that,” said Fergus.

Líadan tried to hide her increasing distress by focusing on the details, but the façade fell once any of them looked her in the eye. “You should still go talk to Nuala. Let her know that it’s safe for her and the children to be in the palace—the family wing, at least. If they stay in the compound much longer, they’ll get even more anxious than they already must be. And talk to Shianni, too, if you can get her to the compound—if Nuala and Rhian haven’t gotten her there already. When it needs to, she can help the pertinent information get out faster.”

Fergus gave Líadan a nod. “All right. I’ll just—I’ll see you before you leave, right?”

She smiled faintly. “Of course you will.”

Then Fergus was out the door. 

Alistair rubbed at the back of his neck, a habit he’d had since the Blight. “Right. Right. Well, this is awful. Truly. And we can’t let anything look out of the ordinary, which precludes any sort of gathering or real goodbyes, but we can’t just leave it at this. How about… how about we raid the larder later? That’s been known to happen on far more than one occasion. We can make our run before you’re supposedly going to have that blow-out fight of yours. It’ll be like the old days!”

“Alistair, the three of you raided the larder only five days ago,” said Anora.

“There was Nevarran cheese in there. It needed to be liberated.”

“To your stomach, you mean,” said Malcolm.

“Oh, like you should talk,” said Alistair. “You ate nearly as much of the cheese as I did, and don’t even get me started on how you accosted the bread.” He pointed at Anora. “You were there, too! I can never repeat how you acted with those lemon tarts.” Then he was pointing at Líadan. “And you, you should really talk to someone about your little love affair with apples.” 

Líadan took an aggressive step toward Alistair. “Those were Brecilian apples! Do you know how hard it is to find them in human cities?”

“Very. And I happen to know there are some in the Palace’s larder right now. So!” Alistair clapped his hands together. “I fancy a nice raid tonight. At the compound, given the situation, but I can grab some of the finer items from the Palace’s larder to bring with me. How’s an hour or so after the children are down for bed sound? I think that would work. It would…” His good cheer faded. “It would still leave you enough time to pack, get ready, whatever it is you’ll have to do before… before you go.”

“I think I’d like that,” said Líadan. 

“You could also procure food for your packs while you’re there. I know you’re a more than capable hunter, but one cannot overlook the necessity of reserves.” Anora clasped her hands together in front of her dress. “Now, we must convince Dane that he did not see magic from his cousin this morning.”

“We have to talk to Bethany, first,” said Alistair. “You know, so she can concoct some sort of visual explanation. Maybe a potion or some sort of rune or scroll. That’d make him believe he didn’t see anything.”

“Then we should be on our way.” 

Alistair gave them an awkward smile as he followed Anora to the door. “Don’t miss our date tonight. I heard there’s some Tantervale cheese down there, too. Never tried that before.” Anora reached behind her and took him by the hand to bring him outside, before he started to babble. It was a Theirin trait, where they talked without pause in an attempt to cover the awkward. It rarely worked, but they never stopped trying. 

The door shut, and it was just the two of them. Malcolm took three steps away from the wall before he dropped heavily onto an armless chair and stared at nothing. Then Líadan was in front of him, slightly bent from the waist so that her face was level to his. She cupped his cheeks in her hands as she pressed her forehead to his. Even through the slight connection, Malcolm could feel the quavering in her chin, the same tremble he felt in his jaw, and the control it took to not give into it left them unable to say anything.

He wouldn’t ask her to stay. It wasn’t possible, and they both knew what they’d rather do over what they had to do. For him to ask would only serve to make a terrible situation worse. And yet he wanted to, for the faint hope that maybe she would, and he wouldn’t have to watch his family leave in order to keep them safe.

It wasn’t fair. It was terribly unfair and before he could stop, his objections spilled out in place of the things he wanted to say. “This isn’t—we fought others and life and everything so hard to get this far, to _be_ together in the first place, and even that was after fighting with ourselves for months. And now we have to be apart because that’s the way it has to be.” The whisper was harsh, even to his own ears. 

He wanted to close his eyes against the ugly truth around them, but he didn’t want to squander any of the time he had left to see his wife. Bondmate, because she was Dalish and it was only one thing of many he loved about her. He wanted to see her eyes of a green color only a shade darker than what she’d given their daughter. He wanted to see her lips quirked in a smile when he said something she shouldn’t find amusing, but did. He wanted to see the _vallaslin_ framing her face, enhancing her scowls and smiles both, the Dalish tattoo as much a part of her as anything, something that made her so very _her_. Then there were all the things he couldn’t directly see. Bright and engaging, prickly and loving both, the woman he loved and the mother of his children and he did _not_ want to let her go.

And yet he had to, for the sake of those very children.

“This sucks,” he said out loud.

Her lips quirked just like he thought they would. “Your eloquence continues to amaze me.” Then she stepped back, moving her forehead away from his. Her hands dropped from his face, but she took one of his hands with one of hers, as unwilling as he was to entirely let go, not before they had to. “I wish there was another way.”

“I think if there was, we would’ve found it by now.”

“We would have, if Ava wasn’t…” In her eyes, pain quickly gave way to the fear they both shared over what would happen to Ava if she didn’t receive proper instruction.

“So you think the dream you had was true?” She’d told him the morning after she’d had it, and how she needed to think, very long and very hard, about the possibility of it being true. Both their instincts had said yes, given how quickly Ava had become the target of demons, but Líadan wanted to be as sure as she could possibly be before she did anything.

“I don’t think I can convince myself that the disappearance of the demons was a coincidence. They haven’t returned in the month since that night, and it’s not like she could hide it from us if they had remained. And if she isn’t and I bring her to Emrys, then he’ll tell me the truth, and we can all take refuge with the Wardens, instead.” Her tone didn’t indicate she had any hope for that at all, but she said it nonetheless. They had to put forth the effort.

“Strange how that seems the happier option, now.” They’d gone from preferring to stay in Ferelden to preferring to stay together as a family. Now both those options had been taken from them.

“More that it’s slightly less painful than the worst alternative.” Her thumb moved back and forth over the ring on his finger. In the Dalish tradition, she’d given it to him before their bonding. In return, he’d given her the bow she still used to this day, and Fergus had supplied one of the traditional Cousland family betrothal gifts—a necklace of a single ethereal silver strand, finely and delicately forged, and so old that no one knew who had forged it. He caught sight of it at the base of her neck only when the light touched it at certain angles. Otherwise, it was difficult to tell it was there. The chain that held her Warden amulet was much more prominent.

The necklace glinted in the light as she leaned slightly over to examine the ring, manipulating his fingers as she did. “You’ll have to take this off.”

“I’m not taking it off. It was the betrothal gift you gave to me. It isn’t like you’re going to stop wearing your necklace or using your bow.”

Her eyes lifted to give him an irritated glare. “I meant from your finger. You can still wear it, but next to your amulet.”

She was right, and he knew she was right, and yet he still had to hold back the urge to convince her otherwise. He sighed. “Better than the alternative, I suppose.” 

“You’re impossible,” she muttered as she removed the ring for him. “Honestly.” Ring in hand, she moved behind him and untied his leather necklace, her fingers brushing across the nape of his neck as she did. Once the knot was undone, she threaded the ring onto the necklace, where it clinked dully against the Warden pendant, and then retied the leather string. One of her hands stayed on the back of his neck for a moment before she draped both her arms over his shoulders, and then her hands settled on his chest. Then she perched her chin on his shoulder before whispering, “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “No. No apologies. No one’s at fault, at least no one here, so you don’t need to apologize for anything.”

Her ensuing quiet was agreement enough. They both stared out the window, neither registering the view of the city as they tried to convince themselves that it would be all right, in the end. That this wasn’t permanent. That this was only a brief interruption, and they would all be able to reunite after the danger had passed. 

The lies they told themselves were so thick that it was like being suffocated.

Then Líadan spoke, bringing the air of distraction they needed. “Do you remember the first time we were nearly together?”

Despite everything that waited for them on the other side of the door, Malcolm smiled at the memory. “The one Oghren inadvertently interrupted?”

“I was mad at him for _days_.”

“I thought you hadn’t planned it?”

“I hadn’t. Doesn’t mean I didn’t like where it was going before it was cut short.” Then her lips were delightfully close to his ear. “And I would like to finish it.”

He wanted to. Maker, did he. But common decency toward his brother, considering their location, demanded at least a token objection. “We’re in Alistair’s study, you know.”

One of her hands cupped the back of his head as she maneuvered around the chair to sit on his lap. “I don’t care. Do you?”

In answer, he splayed his left hand over the small of her back, while the other went gently to the back of her head, as she was doing to him. Then he pulled her closer, leaving their mouths only a hair’s breadth apart, and whispered, “No,” before he kissed her. 

She was instantly as demanding as he was, driven by the same frantic restlessness of putting to good use what moments they had left. He worked at the buckles near the top of her brigandine, determined reveal whatever skin he could. Then he gave up on that and went for the buckles at the bottom in order to reach the laces of her breeches underneath, which he then loosened enough to delve inside her smalls. Maker, she was ready, she was more than ready, and she only half-stifled a moan as he explored. Then she responded in kind, shoving his arms out of the way to untie his breeches, jerk down his smalls, and find him as insistently ready as her. She stepped away just long enough to tug her own breeches and smalls entirely off, while he hurriedly pushed down his own, not wanting to waste more time than they already had. 

Then she returned as fast as she’d gone away to sink down onto him, her warmth as familiar as home. When she tilted her head back as their hips settled together, her throat was bared to him. He kissed a line up the crosshatches of her tattoos there, then along her jaw to return to her mouth when she straightened enough for him to reach it. The kiss didn’t last long, not as it was punctuated by the ragged gasps of a fast-approaching end. He could easily tell she wouldn’t need anything else to help her along, not with how quick and purposeful her movements had become. His weren’t much slower, his fingers pressing into her hips as he sharpened the angle and increased the lovely friction between them. He continued to match her pace even as she increased it, and then she whimpered and tipped forward in a release so strong that it immediately brought his own along with it. He pulled her hips to his as he rode it out, the intensity forcing his eyes shut as his head fell to her shoulder, where her brigandine thankfully muffled his groan. 

Equally as muffled was his whispered, “I love you.” Then followed a hushed plea he fought to leave unsaid, yet it refused to do so: “Don’t leave me.”

Her body completely still, her answer came in a string of Elvish that took him a few moments to decipher. “ _Abelas, emma lath_. _Ar din’nuvenin ven, dar nadas vir. Ma’arlath, abelas._ ” _I’m sorry, my love. I don’t want to go, but it has to be this way. I love you, I’m sorry._

The silence returned, their best efforts having failed to drown it out. 

“I’m not going to cry,” Líadan said, her head still pressed into where his neck met his shoulder.

“Please don’t,” he found himself saying, “because then I’d have to question my performance.”

She laughed, and her breath against his neck made him shiver. But it broke whatever held them to inaction, clearing their heads as much as they could be, letting them set themselves to rights—along with Alistair’s study—and leave to make preparations. If any of the guards outside gave them strange looks, they didn’t care enough to notice. More important things, more important people, held their thoughts captive as they headed for their rooms, and then the Warden compound and their waiting children.


	11. Chapter 11

“A vast granite statue stands on an island, holding back the sea.

The heavens crown its brow. It sees to the edge of the world.

The sea drowns its feet with every tide.

The heavens turn overhead, light and dark. The tide rises to devour the earth, and falls back.

The sun and stars fall to the sea one by one in their turn, only to rise again.

The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless.

Struggle is an illusion. There is nothing to struggle against.”

—excerpt from _The Tome of Koslun,_ the Soul Canto

**Malcolm**

After washing up in their rooms then grabbing a quick meal of what they could wheedle from the kitchens, Malcolm and Líadan headed back down to the compound. 

Nuala was waiting for them just inside the door from the palace. She leaned against one of the wooden crates in the storeroom, eyebrow raised precariously high. “This is some bullshit, you know.”

Malcolm sighed. “Never said it wasn’t. You tell Fergus the same thing?”

“Of course I did.” She pointed alternately at Malcolm and Líadan. “Separating the two of you? That’s ridiculous. I was there that whole year when you were secretly bonded and witnessed firsthand all that shit you went through, and now you have to throw it away.” Líadan opened her mouth to speak, but Nuala cut her off by pointing at her again. “No. I don’t want to hear anything from either of you until I finish. Because not only are you splitting yourselves up, but you’re taking the children, and you’re leaving me behind. I should be able to go. I’m an elf, even though I was raised in the city and still prefer the city. You’d think the Dalish would accept me, given the circumstances.”

“They would,” Líadan said quietly.

“Then why not bring me? I’m not their mother, Maker knows I’m not, but I nursed Cáel from the time he was three months old. I nursed Ava since hours after she was born. I’m not going to stand here and say that I don’t love the both of them, and that it wouldn’t hurt terribly to lose them. Not when they’re so young.”

Líadan inhaled sharply, as if she’d just taken into account what Nuala had said. It made complete sense, and if his mind hadn’t been awash in the awful possibilities that were quickly to become reality, Malcolm would have realized it sooner. Líadan probably would have done so before him. Nuala had been family from early on, and her role with both children was as integral as theirs, and she was no more ready to have the children gone than Malcolm and Líadan were. They’d expected it to be when they were older, closer to adulthood, and not so small and innocent.

“I’m sorry,” said Líadan. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean… I know… if you’re angry at me, that’s fine, it—”

The flinty hardness in Nuala’s eyes faded and her arms reached out toward Líadan before she tugged the other woman into a hug. “No, it’s not fine,” she said in a much softer tone. “It’s not fine at all. It’s not fine for anyone and we’re all losing something dear to us and there isn’t a sodding thing we can do about it. But, between us, we’re all right. It’s everything else that isn’t.” 

Líadan didn’t seem convinced. “If you say so.”

“I do.” Nuala took a step away, but kept her hands on Líadan’s shoulders. “I just want to know why I can’t go.”

“I think you can, actually. Not… not right away. But maybe after a while, once I’ve caught up with the Suriel. Like you said, you’re an elf. Emrys wouldn’t object to you being there, and neither would the clan. It probably won’t even be years, like it will be for Malcolm, if he can even visit. Maybe inside a year, if we find the Suriel soon enough. City elves run off to the Dalish all the time, so you wouldn’t be the first to leave, and I doubt you’d be the last.”

“Thank you,” said Nuala. “You’ve no idea how much—”

“I think I do.”

Nuala gave her a small, genuine smile, and then dropped her hands as she looked over at Malcolm. “I’m sorry,” she said to him.

He did his best to appear unshaken, but he knew he failed when it came to someone who’d been his friend for as long as Nuala had. He gave up. “I know it’s for the best, but it’s…”

“Some kind of bullshit, isn’t it?” Nuala’s smile to him was rueful and probably the start of many attempts to reassure him. “That’s how Shianni described it, and it’s hard to disagree.”

Malcolm raised his eyebrows. “It’s hard to disagree with Shianni about anything, _especially_ when she’s right.”

“You aren’t seriously still afraid of her, are you?”

“A healthy amount of fear has done me well, over the years.” Then he glanced over Nuala’s shoulder and into the empty hallway beyond the storeroom. “Speaking of fear, where are the children?”

“They got restless after dinner, so Fergus has them outside, where no one can get to them without going through the Silver Order and a bunch of Wardens. Come on. I’m sure they’d like to see you.” They were halfway down the hall before she added, “The other princes are here. Bethany managed to convince Dane he’d seen an amazing trick that she’d given to Ava, and it worked. Maker, if I hadn’t known myself, I’d have believed it. Bethany said it was something her father used to do when she and her brother were little. Of course, since they were here and saw their cousins outside, they wanted to run, too. If previous Theirins were anything like this lot, I don’t see how they let themselves be cooped up in a castle long enough to take the throne.”

“I think they traveled the Bannorn a lot,” said Malcolm. “Or maybe they wrestled for it and whoever lost got stuck with the throne.”

“Knowing you and Alistair, probably the second option,” said Líadan. The fact that she’d cracked a joke, even at his expense, made Malcolm feel better. 

Outside, they found that Fergus had not only brought the children there, but that he’d returned them to the sparring match that had gotten cut short earlier. He supervised from where he had before, sitting on the top rail of the low fence. Near him, but on the other side of the fence, stood Dane. He wore look of a child who desperately wanted to play and wasn’t being allowed. Revas had teamed up with Anora’s mabari, Adalla, to chase Callum around in the grass outside the ring.

“Anora and Alistair are inside, getting something to eat,” Fergus said without prompting when Malcolm approached. “Anora informed me that Dane has already had his bath, and therefore would not be allowed to participate in the sparring.”

Fergus really did do a mean impression of the queen.

“She said I can’t fight because I’ll get dirty,” said Dane. “I think I can keep from getting dirt on me.”

“It’s pretty hard to fight effectively without getting a bit mucked up,” said Malcolm. 

Dane sighed and glumly propped his chin on the lower fence rail. “That’s what Da said.”

“Well, he’s right.” Malcolm climbed over the fence and leaned against it.

Fergus chuckled. “I don’t think it properly counts as a fight if no one gets dirt on their clothes.”

“Mud is the qualifier, I think.” He studied Cáel and Ava as they sparred. Their actions were a lot slower than they had been in the afternoon, which meant they were tiring. There was also a significant amount of mud on both their backsides, which meant an even fight, which was probably also why no one was crying. “How long have they been at it?”

“Half an hour, I believe. Give or take,” said Fergus. “They’re tied. They’ve been tied for the last quarter of an hour and I keep thinking they’ll either fall over or give up, but no.”

“Keep waiting and they might literally pass out where they stand,” said Líadan. 

“Might, but not likely.” Malcolm glanced over at the two mabari. “You could send Revas in. She’d take care of it. Adalla might go, too. They love herding children.”

“Because that’s exactly what wardogs are for,” said Fergus.

Dane gave him an incredulous look. “They are?”

“They’re not, but they like to,” said Líadan. Then she signaled Revas and jerked her head toward the ring. 

With Adalla following right behind, the huge dog leapt into the ring and ran circles around the two combatants, slinging mud with her paws. It wasn’t long before both children got the giggles and Revas toppled them over while they were too busy laughing. Adalla flopped herself in the mud next to Cáel and Ava, and Revas did the same on the other side. Callum snuck under the bottom rung of the fence and joined in, launching himself on top of Adalla, whose only response was to lick the face of the little boy who’d become a giggling mess.

“Oh, come on!” said Dane.

Malcolm decided he’d take the blame on this one. He leaned over the fence, grabbed his nephew, and hoisted him over his head. As the little boy squealed and laughed, Malcolm carried him upside-down to the pile of children and dogs. Then he spun him sideways and plopped him right next to Adalla, making sure to get Dane’s blond-haired head into the mud before letting the mabari take over. And she did. Between Adalla’s paws, Revas, and the other children, Dane was plenty muddy when Anora and Alistair returned. At first, Anora’s irritation was directed at her son, up until Dane informed her who had dumped him in the mud. Then her glare switched to Malcolm, who only grinned in return. After all, though Dane didn’t know it, he wouldn’t have another chance to play with his cousins for a very long time. It was worth the muddied clothing for Dane and the scolding Malcolm knew he’d get from Anora.

However, it was sneaking well past the time they should have started bundling the children into bed. After being rounded up, Dane and Callum tracked gloriously muddy footprints into the compound and then the palace as they were shooed to their baths. Cáel and Ava were slower, with Fergus giving them great big hugs before they left with Nuala.

“I’ll miss them,” Fergus said as the door to the palace closed, leaving him in the storeroom with Malcolm and Líadan. Then Fergus looked at Líadan. “I’ll miss you, too.”

She gave him a small smile, despite the sadness that’d crept into her eyes after she’d said good night to her nephews while knowing it was good bye. “And you haven’t been half bad for a brother.”

He pulled her into a hug. “Don’t stay gone forever. You keep my little brother from falling to pieces. I don’t think I can put him back together if you don’t return.”

“I’ll come back.”

Fergus gave her shoulders a final squeeze. “I’ll hold you to it. Have a safe journey, and return home healthy.” Then he headed out of the storeroom, clapping Malcolm once on the shoulder as he left. 

Wordlessly, Malcolm started for the family wing, with Líadan keeping pace right beside him. Ava and Cáel would probably be close to being done with their baths, depending on how cooperative they chose to be. Some nights, it was all anyone could to do to get them to use soap, much less scrub. Other nights, they were happy to cooperate, and loudly protested having to get out of the water. No one had yet to figure out the difference. Baths this late meant bed very soon after, which meant an end to the time Malcolm had with them. Bed was already late, but he wanted to let the children stay up even later. He wanted to keep them up so he could play with them, sit with them, listen to them talk and laugh for as long as he could before he couldn’t. 

Fresh from their baths, they were already in the large sitting room, bursting with energy and questions, even as the evening crawled perilously close to their bedtimes. Nuala slipped out of the room after Malcolm and Líadan came in, quietly telling them she’d be back in time for them to head for the compound to meet the others.

“Is what Uncle Fergus said true?” asked Cáel asked once he realized he had their attention. 

“Which part?” asked Líadan. “Your uncle says a lot of things, and some of them stretch the truth. Like the story he told you about werewolves.”

Ava tilted her head to the side. “You mean the one where he said a Dalish clan turned into werewolves?”

“Yes.”

“I think that one was entirely a lie,” said Malcolm. “I’ve never heard of Dalish werewolves.”

Líadan sat cross-legged in front of a low bookcase lined with hardbound books filled with various children’s stories and Fereldan myths. “Neither have I.”

“But there are werewolves.” Cáel frowned slightly as he stood next to Líadan and looked over the books on the shelf. “I remember reading about them. Sort of. I didn’t know all the words. But I know it’s here.” His finger traced the titles on each spine as he searched.

Malcolm had too much anxious energy to sit down, though he knew he should if the children were ever going to calm down enough to fall asleep at a reasonable hour. Except he couldn’t bring himself to sit, and wouldn’t allow himself to pace, which meant he stood stupidly and fidgeted. Then Ava kindly gave him something to do.

“Papa, can you make me tall?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I suppose, but I’d have to stretch you out on a rack or something. I’m not sure the palace has one of those around, plus there’s the whole problem of it being torture, which isn’t allowed. Because it’s not nice.”

She rolled her eyes. “Not that one. The one with your shoulders.”

“Oh!” He bent and picked her up, and then thought better of it. “Wait, didn’t you smack your head on a lintel last time?”

“I’ll duck.”

“Yeah, you said that last time, too.” He lifted her up onto his shoulders, anyway. “Fine, but if you get an egg on your head, you take the blame. Enchanter Wynne isn’t here, and we aren’t going to go bother Bethany or Perran over it, either.” He started a circuit around the room that would allow her to see and reach items she normally couldn’t, such as a few tomes about questionable magic they kept on high bookshelves. Next to the books, there was also a carved wooden halla with a missing horn that Merrill had given Líadan. Hanging on the wall was a Highever shield Fergus had given Malcolm, a painting of a griffon that Merrill had found somewhere and had Varric send them, and a halberd from Alistair. Malcolm still wasn’t sure why Alistair had given that to him. He never used them. Alistair had mentioned something about Oghren and pikes and left it at that, and Malcolm felt safer in not knowing.

“See! There _are_ werewolves.” Dane pointed at the book he was fighting to keep open with his other hand. He scowled and sat down, opting for his lap instead. “It says so right here.”

“Which book have you got there?” asked Malcolm. “Because if it’s by Brother Genitivi, its veracity is more than a little suspect.”

Cáel furrowed his brow. “What’s veracity?”

“Truthful to the facts,” said Líadan.

“Then why not just say that?” asked Ava.

Malcolm chuckled. “You sound just like a little Dalish girl I once met. She got mad at me because I kept using complicated words.”

“Was it Mamae?” asked Cáel.

“No,” Malcolm said, drawing out the word. “But I bet your mother was just like that when she was little.”

Cáel gave Líadan an expectant look. “Were you?”

Líadan briefly glared at Malcolm before saying, “Maybe.”

“That means yes.” Cáel smiled and then returned to his book, keeping his place with one finger as he closed the book and checked the cover. “Says it’s _Ferelden: Folklore and History_ , by someone named Sister Petrine. What’s that say about the veracity now?”

“Probably more fact than myth,” said Malcolm.

Ava grabbed the halla carving as they walked by. She’d probably sleep with it instead of cuddling a blanket if given the choice, which was why they kept it up on a higher shelf. Mostly so that she didn’t roll over in the night and get a halla horn in her eye. Because by virtue of being their child, she would.

“So,” said Cáel, “these werewolves were around during the Black Age. Says they were killed by Mather and Haelia Cousland, and says that’s when Highever was made a teyrnir.”

“True as far as I know,” said Malcolm. “It’s what I was taught as a boy. Fergus and I always questioned the werewolf part, though.”

Cáel looked up at him from the book. “But you’re sure about the other parts?”

Ava got too wiggly, so Malcolm set her down to run around on her own two legs. So, of course, she skipped over to Líadan and settled in her lap, halla carving still in hand. 

“Mostly,” said Malcolm. “The Couslands and Highever Castle still have relics from that era, complete with the stories to go with them to explain their histories.” He motioned toward Líadan. “In fact, the silver necklace your mother has is from that time. It’s said that Mather Cousland gave it to his wife, Haelia, before she took the first of the troops off to fight the werewolves. It was supposed to keep her in good health, if I remember correctly.”

“Really?” Cáel leaned over far enough to look at it closely. “Did humans even make it? I’ve never seen any sort of metal look that much like thread, not in the market. Not even in Master Wade’s shop.”

“No idea.” Malcolm finally sat down, his back to the low fire in the hearth. “No one knows who forged it.”

Cáel straightened, put the book back on the shelf, and sat next to Malcolm. “You still didn’t say either way about what Uncle Fergus said.” Though he’d sounded almost cross when he’d said it, Cáel leaned against his father as he waited for an answer.

“If he told you that Uncle Alistair took care of things as best he could, then yes, it’s true. You’ll be safe.” Both things were true, though not in the manner the children would assume. The missing parts would be explained later, when it was safe for Líadan to do so. Even then, the immediate omission of details felt as much a lie to Malcolm as doing so outright.

“All right.” Cáel nodded seriously, and then looked at his sister. 

“He’s the King,” said Ava. “He’ll protect us.”

Malcolm nearly winced. The two of them were going to smash his heart to pieces.

“Let’s go, you two,” said Líadan, who’d picked up that Malcolm was having difficulty maintaining the appearance of being fine. “Past your bedtimes.”

The announcement brought the requisite whining, but for once, Malcolm didn’t mind, if only because he didn’t know when he’d hear it again. He held his hand out to Ava. “We need to put the halla away.”

She hugged it close to her chest. “I want to keep it with me.”

“Wooden carvings of halla aren’t exactly the best for snuggling. Besides, don’t you have a stuffed spider you snuggle with at night? Use that, like usual. At least it’s soft, for Maker’s sake.”

“I like the halla better.” 

When he still didn’t relent, she huffed and reluctantly handed him the halla. He still felt like an ass for insisting, but she really would end up poking her eye out on that lone horn. After all, this _was_ the child who’d been born during a demon-killing venture into the Fade while the Qunari attacked Kirkwall outside.

The process of tucking them in went by far too quickly, even with added production of Revas insisting on sleeping in Cael’s room. Too soon, Malcolm found himself outside their rooms, standing in the corridor and looking between their closed doors. 

Líadan gently took his arm after a few minutes. “Come on. I know you want to, but you can’t stand here all night. Or half the night or a third or whatever you’d bargain for.”

He pressed close to her as they walked into their rooms. “I know. It’s just… I’ll miss them, even more than I thought, which was a lot. ”

“I’m sorry,” she said. 

“No, no need to apologize. It’s just the way it is.” The halla drew his attention when they returned to their rooms. “Do you think you should bring the halla with you?”

Líadan bit her lip as she thought it over. “Maybe. Or she could get a new one from Master Ilen when we get to the Mahariel.”

“It wouldn’t have a broken-off horn, though.”

“He could just carve it with one horn. I know, I know, not the same thing.” She frowned. “Maybe I should. I could put it in her pack, so that when she found it, she’d feel better.”

He glanced over at the clock Hildur had brought him from Orzammar. Something about being on time more often if he had a more reliable way for telling time than anything human-made, including chantry bells. “It’s a lot later than we’d planned to have them down. It cut into your packing time. So if you want to skip—”

“What? No, I’m not skipping our larder raid. Dinner wasn’t enough, I still need food supplies, and I’d like that chance to say good bye. And I don’t care that we let them stay up too late. I’m happy to trade packing time for you being able to see them longer.”

He gave her a wan smile to show her he was grateful, but also that he felt that all the time in the world wouldn’t be enough. She hugged him and then set about finding what she needed for packing, while he looked up at the halla. 

When Nuala cautiously poked her head inside the room to let them know she and Kennard were set to keep watch, Malcolm had gone from staring at the halla to paging through the book his son had been reading earlier. He absently tossed it onto the chair he vacated, and then followed Líadan to the Warden compound.

Where, it turned out, Alistair had procured some rather fine ale. He was pouring a mug of it when Malcolm and Líadan walked into the small room off the larder. “Teagan assured me that this is some of the best,” said Alistair.

“This will not end well,” said Anora.

Seriousness stole into Alistair’s demeanor just long enough to tell the others exactly how troubled he was before he said, “Look, I really need to drink if I’m going to not deal with this.” When Anora didn’t answer, Alistair carefully placed an ale in front of her. “Besides, it’s really good ale.”

Anora sighed and accepted the mug.

As soon as Malcolm sat down at the small table, Alistair passed him one, and then slid one down to Líadan when she took a seat. Líadan looked at the ale, and then at Alistair. “I was promised Brecilian apples. This is ale. Not apples.”

“The apples will go really well with the ale,” said Alistair. Líadan’s look turned into a glare, and he gestured at a basket behind him. “Over there. Maker’s breath, all these years I’ve known you, and I had no idea you took apples so seriously.”

She had already hopped out of her seat and had two apples in hand before Alistair even finished his statement. “Only Brecilian apples,” she said as she sat down again. Then, true to her word about dinner, she heaped her plate with food and started in. Alistair and Malcolm weren’t far behind, while poor Anora was left to alternately look on in horror or sip her ale. By the time the Wardens at the table were even remotely sated, she was well into her second mug.

“You partying in here without me?” came Oghren’s voice as he strolled in. 

“Oghren!” Alistair thumped his mug on the table with gusto. “Join us!”

“Already sodding did, pike-twirler. Worst drink I ever had, but I did get some fancy weapons out of the deal.”

“Ale?” asked Malcolm. It occurred to him that he should offer to share the food, but Oghren generally wanted ale.

“Thought you’d never ask.” Oghren helped himself to a tankard, and then raised it to Anora. “Good to see you down here, Your Majesty.”

“Really?” asked Alistair. “She gets the ‘Your Majesty’ treatment from you and I don’t?”

“She’s regal. Just who she is, like those Aeducans who run Orzammar or the Wardens or whatever. Like them, she looks like she’s from a long line of regal folks. Opposite you Theirin boys. Who’d have thought you’d end a Blight? Steal your throne back? Maybe the Stone. Never would’ve put my coin on it.” With that, Oghren took a long pull of his ale.

“I’m not sure whether or not I should be insulted,” said Alistair.

Líadan raised an eyebrow at him. “It isn’t like you don’t act like you aren’t clever. You’ve been practicing for so long that you’re very convincing.”

“I didn’t think it was an act, at first,” said Anora. “I honestly did not believe the two of them would actually manage to rescue me.”

Malcolm stopped fidgeting with his mug and looked at Anora. “From Arl Howe?” It was a time he hadn’t thought about in a while. Maybe the parts with Morrigan, due to Ava and Cáel and other things he didn’t want to contemplate right then, but nothing involving Anora or Howe. 

“I assumed he would have captured you. You did go to his estate, after all.”

Alistair rolled his eyes. “We were fully aware that it was a trap. That Orlesian woman practically screamed it with her theatrics. But when Zev told us you were truly being held, it wasn’t like we could just leave you there, trap or not.”

“Still, you surprised me, and you both have continued to do so since.” Anora frowned down at her ale. “Where was this from? It’s a bit strong.”

“A new blonde ale from a brewery in Killarney. I like it,” said Alistair. “And it makes you chatty.”

Malcolm was fairly certain Alistair was making moony eyes, which was made more certain by the flush the ale had drawn to Alistair’s cheeks. 

“I do not like being chatty,” said Anora.

“I know, that’s the fun!”

Definitely moony eyes. 

Anora ignored Alistair—which Malcolm figured wise—and then inclined her head toward Líadan. “What about you?”

She had her fingers threaded through the handle of her mug, which still had at least half the ale she’d first been given. “Oh, I like it. But, I have to keep a clear head, so it’s just one for me.”

“No, not the ale. I meant these two, when you first met them.”

“Oh, Maker, please don’t,” said Malcolm. This had gone beyond chatty, and he did not like that look in Alistair’s eye.

“Are you kidding? This is a tale I want to sodding hear,” said Oghren. “Manskirt said it was sparks from the beginning.”

“Oghren, Anders didn’t even join the Wardens until after the Blight,” said Malcolm. “He was just making shit up.” Because that’s what the old Anders did. He teased and joked and told funny stories, yet was a really good friend. Malcolm missed him.

“But he was right. It was literally sparks,” said Alistair. “Literally. Well, maybe not right at the first, but pretty close. She—” he pointed at Líadan “— _hated_ him. I think. Acted like it, anyway. Riordan had to use all sorts of his sneaky ways to get them to even speak to each other without yelling. It worked. Sort of.” He gave Líadan a curious look. “Which is why I never understood why you followed him to Weisshaupt.”

“Because Riordan told me to,” said Líadan.

“Hah!” Oghren shook with his amusement, and hastily put down his third tankard before any ale sloshed out. “You might get the others to believe that bunch of bronto droppings, but I know for a fact you volunteered.”

“Maybe I did.” Then her unwillingness to talk about what happened post-Blight took precedence over avoiding talking about when she’d met them during the Blight. “To answer your question, they confused me. I hadn’t spent a lot of time around humans before, so I spent the majority of my time trying to understand them.”

Alistair took to playing with some of the water that’d dripped onto the tabletop, tracing out both crude and quaint sketches. “Didn’t Morrigan help you the most?”

“She did, yes.”

“But you still hated him.”

“For the love of the Creators, I didn’t hate him. I just… Malcolm was more difficult to understand than anyone else.”

“Suspect it’s ‘cause you didn’t understand your own thoughts about the blighter,” said Oghren.

Alistair’s eyes lit up, becoming shinier than the ale had already made them. “Oh, you’re becoming insightful. Means you’re getting up there in flagons.”

“Nah. Well, maybe. But this little gathering seems like it’s about truth telling, so I figured I’d play along. How am I doing?”

“Rather well,” said Anora. “Please continue, if you wish.”

“All right.” Oghren switched to the speculative tone he tended to bring out after five or so flagons, but apparently that had been some sort of cover, since he was merely nearing the end of his third. “So, what would that witchy-type say about all this?”

“You mean Morrigan?” asked Alistair.

“Not any other witchy-type I know.”

Líadan looked over at Malcolm, which told him she thought he should handle it. He sighed. “She’d say we’re doing the right thing.” He frowned. “Correct thing. No, she’d use a better word. You know, a Morrigan word, said in a Morrigan way. Anyway. She’d agree.”

“You sure? Not just telling yourself that so she won’t come back and take your manhood as some sort of trophy?”

“I hadn’t realized she required an excuse,” said Alistair.

“I’m sure,” Líadan said after throwing a glare Alistair’s way. “She did tell me to keep Cáel from the Chantry by any means necessary.”

“Huh.” Oghren scratched under the braids of his beard. “She _would_ be the type to see this kind of thing coming.”

“Can we not talk about Morrigan?” asked Malcolm. Talking about Morrigan reminded him that even Cáel had to leave him because if he didn’t, he’d be in danger, too. And he didn’t want to think about what would be gone come tomorrow morning. Not while he still had them.

“Oh, no,” said Oghren. “I’ve been wondering for a long time about how much that witch knew.” When no one offered their opinions, Oghren chuckled before he held out his tankard to support whatever statement he was going to make. “You know what I think?”

“I hesitate to wonder,” said Alistair.

Oghren ignored the skeptical looks from the others. “I think the witch set ‘em up, since she knew what was coming.”

“She did not,” said Malcolm. It was a ridiculous thing to say, especially for Oghren.

“No?” Oghren raised a bushy eyebrow at him. “Go on, ask the elf what she thinks. I’ll wait.”

There was no way under the Maker’s sun Malcolm would follow through and ask that question, even as everyone at the table, except for Líadan, implored him to do with their stares. 

Líadan stared down into her mug.

Bethany wandering into the room saved them both. “Oh!” she said as she came through the doorway, a cloth sack thrown over her shoulder. “I hadn’t thought there’d be people down here.”

“We’re trading stories about what we all thought the others were like when we met ‘em,” said Oghren. “It’s your turn.”

She blinked, but did gamely attempt to answer. “I thought you were all…” Then she struggled for the right word.

“Go on, you can say it. Mad as a nug with a war hammer?”

“Exciting, I was going to say, actually.”

Oghren laughed. “Sure you were. Have a flagon. That’ll get you telling the truth.”

Instead of fetching Bethany a mug of ale, Alistair pointed at the sack she held. “What’ve you got there?”

“Oh, just a few health poultices. That’s all.” She put the sack down on the floor, where it thunked rather loudly, and some clinking followed.

“Just a few?” asked Alistair. “Maker, it looks like you’ve got enough for an entire regiment.”

“Maybe some potions, too.” 

“‘Fess up,” said Oghren. “You robbed someone blind, didn’t you?”

“What? No. No! I just thought… I thought they might be useful for Líadan, since she can’t heal.”

“It looks like you expect her to fall off a hundred cliffs,” said Alistair. “She’s not exactly accident-prone. That’s Malcolm. You’ve seen how often he gets hit in the head. Or catches fire. Sometimes both.”

Malcolm didn’t dignify that with a comment, mostly because it was true.

Bethany sighed and managed to give him a sympathetic look at the same time. “Yes, she’s graceful. The children, however, aren’t exactly prone to sudden bouts of caution. And I’m not sure Ava really understands the concept of danger once she decides to accomplish something.”

“She’s got you there, pike-twirler.”

Alistair stood from his chair. “That’s it, I’m getting more ale.”

“You’d better save some for me,” said Sigrun, who traipsed into the room with Thierry, Perran, and Rhian behind her. “Also them.” As she grabbed a tankard and headed for the keg, she caught sight of the basket. “Oh! Apples!”

“I’d be careful if I were you,” Alistair said as he returned to his seat with a refilled mug. “Líadan might cut off your hand if you take one.”

“I will not. I happily share with my friends.”

Alistair stuck out his bottom lip. “I’m not your friend?”

“Brother-in-law. It’s a bit different, so keep your hands off my apples.”

Oghren started chuckling, and it quickly turned into a rumbling belly laugh. “Her apples!” He nudged Líadan in the side. “Get it?”

Instead of answering out loud, Líadan gently placed a flask on top of the table. Oghren’s eyes went wide when he saw it, and sent him to patting down all his pockets. “Ancestors! How?”

“Nevermind that.” Líadan held the flask just out of Oghren’s reach as she smiled at him. At least, it seemed to be smile, but contained an awful lot of warning. “Next time you mention my apples, you won’t be getting this back.” Only when Oghren nodded did she return his flask, which he immediately squirreled away.

“And all this time, I thought you were the problem,” Thierry said to Sigrun.

She grinned. “Speaking of, did you want your boot knife back?”

Thierry sighed.

Malcolm couldn’t help the grin from forming at all their rather unique expressions of friendship. Yet, he would give every bit of it up in an instant if it meant he could stay with his family. The realization descended with a frown of its own, and the smile disappeared. Líadan gave him a concerned look, but he shrugged it off. Now wasn’t the time to dwell. He had tomorrow and all the days after for that.

Which meant, of course, one of their friends noticed. “Don’t worry, elf,” said Oghren. “I’ll take care of the blighter for ya. Reckon this little separation might cause some issues.”

Líadan pushed her empty mug to the middle of the table. “Oghren, I’m not Branka. And I’m not bringing my entire family, aside from my bondmate, into the Deep Roads. There are also no traps, golems, or anvils, and it isn’t permanent.”

“No?” asked Sigrun. “Because this looks a lot like a funeral for someone who’s joining the Legion of the Dead.”

“I’d always thought dwarven funerals would involve a lot of ale,” said Alistair.

“You aren’t helping,” Líadan said to Alistair.

“I am! Except it’s Oghren’s side I’m taking, this time. Which, now that I think about it, means I shouldn’t have had that last ale.” Alistair put aside his tankard and stood, using the table as a support.

“I’ll be fine,” said Malcolm.  

To which everyone in the room, including Anora, laughed.

Because of course they did. Doing his best to avoid eye contact, he stood and went to the water bucket to rinse out his mug. Except that he couldn’t find the damn bucket, so he stared at the shelves behind Alistair for a moment before giving up and turning around. But before he could escape, Alistair put an arm around his shoulders. “We know you. I doubt you’ll be fine, unless you can be completely distracted with work. Lots of work. Like, your desk piled with paper and letters and possibly some new recruits. Stacks of them. Literally. On your desk.”

Judging by how much weight Alistair was resting on him, Malcolm was fairly certain he was actually holding his brother up. Since he didn’t really want Alistair to fall on his face—yet—he stayed put.

“Already sent a message to Aeducan,” said Oghren. “She’ll come up with something.”

Wonderful. If Hildur came back down to Denerim, Alistair’s wishes of piles of work would come true. Hildur would drown him in it to keep him occupied. So, he didn’t address it at all. “I think my brother needs to call it a night,” he said.

“Probably,” said Alistair. “Remind me not to drink that ale again.”

Anora rose from her chair, but didn’t start for the door. “Malcolm, if you took him to his rooms, and act as he does while you escort him, it would lend credence to the plan we have in place.”

She was right, obviously. Far more a chance he’d shove his foot in his mouth if he’d had more than a mug of ale. It wasn’t that he got mean when he drank—far from it, in fact, leaning more toward the lazy, happy kind of pleasant—but his filter did tend to turn decidedly off. It’d already gotten him into trouble on several occasions, and led to many next-day sincere apologies for a little too much honesty.

“How are you always right?” Alistair asked Anora. “You’d think there’d be missteps somewhere, but no. Got to be magic or something.”

“Time to get you tucked into bed.” Malcolm aimed his brother for the doorway. “I’ll see the rest of you tomorrow.”

“I’ll meet you in our rooms,” he heard Líadan say from behind him as he led his brother out.

They hadn’t even gotten to the storeroom before Alistair started babbling. “You know I would never really let the templars take Ava, right? Or that I’d give her to them or the Chantry or the Circle or whoever. If it came down to it, right in the moment, I’d fight. I just… I know doing that would drag the whole country in with us.”

“You know what? You’re drunk.”

“Maybe a little.”

“More than.” He had to be, if he was pouring out his worries that he’d managed to keep contained before this. However, Malcolm couldn’t deny that Alistair’s confessions were good to hear. While he’d wanted to be entirely sure Alistair wouldn’t do anything that would end with Ava in the Circle, he hadn’t been certain.

“Whatever.” Alistair bumped into a crate and glared at it like it’d attacked him. “What I’m saying is that once the army is ready, the second it is, we’ll bring them back. Get Feynriel to come too, or try to get Emrys to help or something. I won’t let your family be separated for one minute longer than it has to.”

Now it was getting awkward. “Alistair—”

“I’ll fight for them, and so will Ferelden, and we won’t fall. We just need _time_.”

“There’s never enough time.” It was a lesson repeated to Malcolm over and over as his life went on.

Alistair paused to give him a curious look. “Are you sure you aren’t drunk, too? We’re getting philosophical.”

“No. I’m saving the drunk for tomorrow.”

“Oh, two nights in a row. That could be painful. I wonder if that means I’m too old for it.” He tilted his head to the side as they stumbled through the doorway from the compound to the palace. “Do you think I’m getting to old for it?”

“I hope not. It isn’t like I’m that much younger than you.” They continued like that through the palace and to the wing where their families were quartered, talking of silly things in confused ways, as they’d done a few times before when they both _had_ been in their cups. Then Malcolm dumped Alistair through the door, where Anora already waited, somehow having beaten them there. Probably Sigrun. She was sneaky and fast enough to get Anora through the palace undetected.

Before Malcolm left, Alistair grabbed his wrist to make his brother look at him. “We’ll fix it,” he said, and the look he gave him was a lot more sober than Malcolm had assumed. “I promise.”

Malcolm nodded, not wanting to say anything else, and then headed for his own rooms. While Alistair promised much, he could make a promise every time he breathed and each one would be as empty as the one before it. Not because he didn’t believe his brother—he did. But Malcolm couldn’t see past the part where even the King of Ferelden had no other solution to offer except to run and hide. For all the power they had, they might as well have been children playing a game.

As she’d said, Líadan had returned to their rooms before he did. She had three packs already out and a piled assortment of items near them, yet was staring at something in her hand.

“It’s a hand,” he said to her after he closed the door. “You’ve got two of them. As far as I know, you always have.”

She let out a soft laugh and turned. “Perran gave me this.” Then she handed him a small charm strung on a necklace of tiny ironbark links. “Well, for me to give Ava. He said it would help her, in case the demons returned.”

Closer inspection revealed the charm to be a bear, carved from what looked like halla horn. Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “Well, Dirthamen’s bears are pretty protective, and they aren’t going to get deceived or be scared by nothing less than, I don’t know, a dragon.” He gave the charm back to her.

“Yes, exactly.” She graced him with a brilliant smile at his display of Dalish knowledge, but it was quickly dampened by sadness that fought to break her composure. “I’ll go finish packing.” Then she half-turned away before saying, “I don’t know how long it’ll take, so don’t feel like you have to wait up for me.”

He resisted making the several comments that came to mind, and nodded instead before settling into a chair to resume looking through Cáel’s book. They were both quiet, which Malcolm hadn’t thought would happen. He’d figured they’d be talking as much as they could before they couldn’t, but neither of them had much to say that wouldn’t make things worse. So he stayed in the chair for a while, available if she decided to chat, but they both ended up quietly struggling with their mirrored fears. Eventually, he set the book aside and headed for the other room. If he was going to stay up, he’d at least be comfortable. There was also the ulterior motive of enticing his wife to do something other than packing—or at least pack faster—but he didn’t have to say it out loud.

Not when he could leave the door open while he changed, which he did. Then he made a show of hopping into bed clad only in his smalls. It brought out some of the desired reaction from Líadan, jolting her out of whatever melancholy held her. It was enough for her to roll her eyes and smile at him at the same time. 

“When I’m done with this,” she said.

“Promises, promises. I’ll just be over here, a handsome man waiting in your bed.” And that comment even drew a blush to her cheeks. It was a partial victory, though, since she kept on with the packing. He was content enough to settle in and watch her, for he’d miss even moments like this one, with easy banter and teasing and understanding beneath it all.

But the planning and packing for a very sudden, very long trip for an adult and two children took a lot more time than either of them assumed, and Malcolm eventually drifted off. At some point in the night, Líadan must have finished and crawled into bed to sleep, because he woke up in darkness with her curled up against him. While grateful that it wasn’t yet light outside, he was still frustrated with himself for having fallen asleep and the time lost to it. His arm was also going numb, but unless he woke up Líadan, there wasn’t much he could do about it since she’d taken to using it for a pillow. With how much travel she was going to have to do, made only more difficult with two children in tow, she’d need all the rest she could get. That meant not begrudging her some much-needed sleep. However, he was getting perilously close to having a dead arm. While leaving his right arm still, he rolled onto his back to see if that would restore the blood flow.

It did nothing, so he tried flexing his hand, which only helped a little.

“You can just move your arm,” Líadan said, slightly lifting her head. “I’m awake, because you really aren’t subtle.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up.” He pushed himself up slightly so he could work the pins and needles from his arm. “Wouldn’t have objected if you’d woken me up when you were done, though.” When she raised herself up enough to look at him, he realized how that might have sounded. “I’m not mad at you. Mad at myself for falling asleep in the first place.”

“Don’t waste what we have left by being angry,” Líadan said. “We don’t know the next time we’ll be able to even sleep next to each other. I mean, you _are_ rather nice to cuddle with on cold nights.”

He listened to her, but the last comment didn’t register, not when he was struck by the fear he hadn’t acknowledged all day. “What if it’s never?”

“Don’t—”

“It could—”

“Stop.” She moved her hand lightly down his cheek, and he thought he could hear the rasp of his stubble against the pads of her fingers. “I don’t want to think about any of that. I don’t want to think of what ifs or what abouts or nevers. I want now, because we…” Then she didn’t say it, and he knew it was because she didn’t want to. “Because I do.”

“All right.”

Her hand drifted downward to his chest, while he reached out and ran a finger along the edge of her pointed ear, so very different from the rounded ears of humans, yet it was right, and it had been for a long time. A long time that he’d thought would be longer.

Her fingers brushed over the smattering of hair he had on his stomach, and then halfway followed the thin line that trailed under his smalls. “Elven men don’t have this sort of hair,” she said.

“You’ve said that before.”

“I know, but… I don’t know when—”

“And now you see how it isn’t so easy not to talk about it.”

He saw the shadow of sadness in her eyes before it was replaced by a wicked glint, and then he realized she was much better at setting things aside than he was. “I think we’ve easily managed to avoid a lot of conversations about your body hair. If I’d known how much you were dying to talk about it, I would’ve brought it up even more often.” Her fingers returned to his stomach, but it wasn’t a caress she was intent on. Her touch was light, and he squirmed as he tried not to giggle. It was unmanly and definitely not appropriate in their situation, but she didn’t let up.

Maker’s mercy, she was tickling him, at a time like this. “Quit that,” he said. “You’re going to make me laugh.”

“I’m _trying_ to make you laugh. I like your laugh. I want to hear it again.” She didn’t say _so I’ll remember_ , but she didn’t need to. He knew. She didn’t relent in her efforts, and soon enough, he couldn’t keep himself from laughing. The smile his laughter wrought from her was wide and genuine and then he wanted to see another kind of smile from her. He took her deft hands away from where they’d yet to let up on tickling, placing them up over her head as he half-rolled on top of her. She caught the look in his eye and nodded, and when he let go of her hands, she didn’t move them.

He wanted to remember her smile. And he wanted to bring her _that_ smile again, the one he’d first seen when they came together in the rain at Highever, the one he’d sought every time they were together afterward. His fingers trailed lightly over the skin he’d come to know so well: the faded dusting of freckles on her shoulders from a childhood spent outside in the sun, the two large claw mark scars on her flank from the shriek that had mauled her while they fought the Archdemon, the silvery lines just above her hipbones from when she’d carried their daughter, the faint scar on her thigh from her first meeting with a deepstalker—he traced them all, his tongue following his lips following his fingers as he did. Then he switched to places he knew to be favorites of hers, drawing out exactly the sounds he knew would eventually lead to that smile again, but just when he’d finally removed her smalls to explore one last time what waited there, she reached the end of her tolerance for keeping her hands off.

And there was the smile.

He’d not so much as blinked and her hands had moved, hauling him upwards along her body to draw him into a breathless kiss. His smalls, he realized, had been a victim of her quick hands, taken off and tossed to the side before he had even spared them a thought. Now he was tantalizingly close to slipping into her, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to yet. The realization had struck him that this could be the last time they were together in the foreseeable future—possibly, frighteningly, ever. His hips twitched forward of their own accord, and had this been any other time, his decision would’ve been done for right then. But this time, he stilled once he slid all the way in, torn between believing he should draw this out to make it a long memory that could sustain them while they were apart, or to give into the raw need for an intensity that would chase out every other thought beyond being with the person he loved.

Líadan shifted restlessly beneath him, as if driven by the latter. “Please, please, just—”

Her plea did him in, because he couldn’t remember her ever sounding like that, and he moved.

She clung to him, arms and legs wrapped around him as if she could meld them together so that they couldn’t be separated. He placed his forearms on either side of her head, as close as he could get without losing sight of her face, because he didn’t know if they would ever have this again. She held onto him as desperately as he held onto her, wishing as he did that neither of them had to leave. Yet, all they had was this, and only for a short time more.

Her release caught him by surprise, and her sudden exhalation as her body flexed against his told him she hadn’t expected it, either. It had her grasping him tightly inside and out, and even as he tried to resist it, to stubbornly make this time last, the heady power of hers triggered his own. It was drawn from what felt like his very toes, forcing his eyes shut as it overtook him, and wrenching a groan from his chest that might have sounded more like a whimper.

Not that he would admit it, or that it had happened before, or that Líadan had lovingly teased him about it for weeks. Not at all.

Yet, he would gladly suffer the teasing, _welcome_ the teasing, if it meant she wouldn’t have to leave.

When he opened his eyes, he became conscious of the fact that he’d placed all his weight on her body, and readied to move to the side. But when he went to roll, her legs held him in place.

“No, don’t go. Not yet,” she said quietly.

He rested his head next to hers in a way that left his lips on her ear. “Not ever.” Starting with that elegantly pointed ear, he resumed the exploration she’d so impatiently interrupted. This time, she was patient enough for him to go as slowly as he liked, allowing them to be together for as long as they possibly could.

Then they ran out of time.

In the grey before dawn, armed and armored, packs in hand, Líadan kissed him one last time, and then stole out the door. Malcolm couldn’t follow. He couldn’t even watch them go because it would give them away. Already, the night guards had started the rumors. Already, the daytime guards would be passing the word along. Already, the staff in the kitchens and the rest of the palace would be talking about the shouting match between them. In an hour or so, Nuala would go to rouse the children as she did every morning, and feign surprise that they were gone.

Then Malcolm wouldn’t have to act at all, because all he had to do was tell people that Líadan had left. It would be true. Every consequence and emotion would be absolutely true because he didn’t even know when he’d see her or their children again. But they would be safe. Ava would have a teacher and not be left to demons. Cáel would be harbored by the Dalish as he and Morrigan had been when he was a newborn. Líadan would be there, giving them at least one parent at their sides. No matter how much it hurt, none of it would matter so long as they were safe.

And he would repeat it to himself until he believed it.


	12. Chapter 12

“The deception flows deeper. The statue resists the ebb and flow of the sea,

And is whittled away by each wave.

It protests the setting sun, and its face is burned looking upon it. It does not know itself.

Stubbornly, it resists wisdom, and is transformed.

If you love purpose, fall into the tide. Let it carry you.”

—excerpt from _The Tome of Koslun,_ the Soul Canto

**Malcolm**

Wade stared down at the battered shield Malcolm had handed to him. “What did you _do_ to this?”

“There was a huge genlock,” said Malcolm. “With an even bigger shield. The shield had spikes. The genlock _really_ wanted to get past me, and I couldn’t let him. Then there were spikes of ice. Magical ones, falling from a pretend sky, and I really didn’t want them to kill me.”

Proof of Wade’s extensive experience as armorer for the Grey Wardens was that he didn’t bat an eye at Malcolm’s description of events. “No dragon this time?”

“No, actually. No.” He wouldn’t have been surprised if they had come across the dragon in the prison, but thankfully they hadn’t.

“Isn’t this of dwarven make?”

“Yes.”

Wade sighed and ran his fingers over the front of the shield. It was more dents than anything else, really. He flipped it around to the back, wincing as he got a good look at it. Then he lifted his eyes to look at Malcolm. “I’ll be honest with you—there are only so many dents one can repair before a shield is weakened permanently, no matter what the metal. With how extensive the damage is to your shield, I’m not sure it can be restored to what it once was. At the very least, I’m certain the necessary repairs will break the enchantments. Even then…” Wade sighed again. “You might have to consider getting a new shield.”

Malcolm was tired of changes, and he really liked his shield. “That one was a gift from King Bhelen.”

“And it served you well. The damage it took certainly would have killed you.”

“Well, yes.” That was the main point of his shield—to keep him from getting killed. The other point of it was to keep others from getting killed.

“How long have you had it?”

“Six, seven years. Somewhere in there.”

Wade nodded and set the shield down on the counter. “I can repair it enough so that it will look the same as it did, but it will not be strong enough to withstand the abuse you routinely put your shields through. You’ll have to get a new one.”

Malcolm looked up at the ceiling to keep calm, reminding himself that getting a new shield wasn’t a big deal in the larger scheme of things. One did not have temper tantrums over needing to retire a shield. He brought his gaze back down to Wade. “You’re sure?”

A look of annoyance briefly crossed Wade’s face, but he shook off the understandable irritation quickly. “You and your order have been patrons of mine for years. If I could fix this shield properly, I would, and I would tell you. If I were to tell you so now, it would be a lie. I will not send you into battle with inferior arms, which this shield is in its current condition, and it won’t be much better after it’s repaired.”

Malcolm sighed.

“Yes, it is tragic,” said Herren.

Wade spun to look at his partner in aghast. “Tragic would have been the shield coming apart and him being killed. While it’s sad to see the shield be—”

Herren waved him quiet. “No, not the shield. However, I’m sure his abnormal attachment to it has to do with the tragic end of his marriage.”

“Could we not discuss that?” asked Malcolm. “Please?” Because it seemed it was all anyone wanted to discuss, not just his friends and family—though they meant well—but also everyone else. Maker, he’d heard enough chatter about it just walking through the marketplace to get to Wade’s shop.

Herren looked vaguely hurt. “I simply wanted to say that I didn’t think it would end in tragedy, or that it would end at all.” Then he crossed his arms. “So, what was it that you did?”

“Pardon?”

“What did you do to make her leave?”

He was killing him, Malcolm thought. Herren was killing him. Of _course_ he’d take Líadan’s side, even when there wasn’t a real side to be had. “I was stupid. Let’s just leave it at that.”

“You should apologize,” said Wade. “That’s what I do. Usually works, too, if you’re sincere.”

“It does,” said Herren. “He’s quite good at apologies.”

“I’d have to find her, first.”

Wade glanced up from his second examination of the shield. “What’s stopping you?”

“Their Majesties,” Herren answered for Malcolm. “Haven’t you been listening outside? The King and Queen forbade him from going after her. They sent out search parties of their own, instead. It’s been a fortnight, and they haven’t turned up a thing. I don’t know why they think they stand any chance at all to track a Dalish hunter. You don’t find them. They find you.”

“Can we please, please not talk about it?” asked Malcolm.

“I’ll get your shield restored as best I can,” Wade said as he straightened. “In the meantime, you find yourself a new one.” Then he pointed toward Malcolm’s collar. “And you might want to think about buckling that. I know it’s warm out, but I can see the ring I forged, plain as day.”

“Thank you.” Malcolm fixed the top buckle as Wade had told him. “I’ll stop by next week to see if it’s done.” Then he hurriedly went to make an escape before the two of them asked more questions.

“Maybe not a tragedy, after all,” he heard Herren say as he closed the door.

Malcolm hadn’t taken five steps from Wade’s shop before he came face to face with Oghren and Teyrna Cauthrien. 

“Good, there you are,” said Oghren.

Andraste only knew what Oghren looking for him could lead to, or what kind of news would bring Oghren to the market. “I take it you were searching for me?”

“Got a message from Aeducan while you were out. Said it’d be a couple more weeks before she could get down here. Told me to keep you busy.” He chucked a thumb at Cauthrien. “Ran into her here at the market, invited her to join us.”

“We’re not…” With no small amount of dread, Malcolm glanced between the two others. “You don’t expect me to spar, do you?” He shot Cauthrien a look of apology. “You, in particular. Wynne would kill me herself.” Then he turned to Oghren. “And she’d kill you, too.”

“Bah. Wynne hasn’t been here in ages. You’ll be fine. Run around in giant circles, that’s my advice.”

Though she’d gotten to lightly laughing, Cauthrien took pity on Malcolm. “He meant a drink at the Gnawed Noble.”

“Thank the Maker.”

“If we did spar,” Cauthrien said as they set off for the tavern, “I wouldn’t hurt you.”

“I know. I mean, I know you wouldn’t hurt me on purpose, but I’m sure I’d end up with my ears ringing, even then. Best to avoid it.” However, if Cauthrien hadn’t been made privy to the real story behind Líadan’s departure, Malcolm wasn’t so sure Cauthrien would be exactly diligent about not hurting him. Anora had made it a point to tell her half-sister the truth as soon as she’d arrived in Denerim last week, because Cauthrien could be very protective of her friends.

“I know I wouldn’t relish facing the disapproval of Senior Enchanter Wynne,” said Cauthrien.

Oghren scoffed. “Shows what you know. Mage wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Says the dwarf who’s resistant to magic,” said Malcolm.

“Hey, you can’t all be winners like me. Too bad.”

Malcolm’s second walk through the marketplace went about as well as the first, and he did his best to ignore snippets of whispers he overheard. He’d actively avoided the marketplace for the past couple of weeks, but he’d set out after midday knowing that he couldn’t hide forever. It’d surprised him how many people expressed anger with Líadan, which didn’t seem fair. In the story, he’d been the ass, not her. But it was like Fergus had said, with the Dalish elf thing. Most took his side because he was human, like them.  

The inside of the Gnawed Noble wasn’t much an improvement over the market outside, but at least the patrons were more discreet about their gossiping. Cauthrien found them a table in a darker corner, though their presence still managed to draw more than a few curious looks. Malcolm ignored them, as did Cauthrien, though Oghren tended to stare them right back down. 

The only person who wasn’t stared down by Oghren was Bann Shianni. She noticed them as soon as she entered and walked straight for their table, which meant she’d probably been looking for them. Most likely, someone had run from the tavern to let her know they were there. Shianni had connections like that, given that most of the city’s messengers were elves. Without asking, she plunked herself in the free chair at their table.

After nodding to Oghren and Cauthrien, she focused on Malcolm. “In case my cousin hasn’t told you, you probably shouldn’t go wandering through the Elven Quarter for, oh, probably the next age or so.”

He slumped, leaning on his elbow on the table, his chin resting on his hand. “Nuala had mentioned in passing—and I seriously mean ‘in passing’ because I’ve barely seen her lately, and…” Then he realized that he really needed to look past himself and what was going on with him, because it was sodding obvious why Nuala was avoiding him. “She’s probably grieving, too,” he said slowly.

Shianni shared an empathetic look with him. “Your family, especially the children, took the place of the family she lost to the dragon attack in Highever. And now she’s lost them, too. She’s strong, but even the strongest of people need time to recover.” She attempted a reassuring smile, which mostly worked. “Don’t worry, she’s still your friend. It’s just that you remind her of them, so she needs a bit of time to steady herself.”

“Last time I talked to her, she did say that the Elven Quarter wasn’t particularly happy with me, but I didn’t realize it was bad enough for me to need to avoid the area entirely.”

Shianni sat back. “She saved the Alienage during the Blight. It isn’t something we’ll ever forget.”

“I was there, too.” It was a pitiful appeal, really. It wasn’t like he didn’t know exactly why Shianni’s people had taken Líadan’s side, because it was the same damn reason why humans took his: she was one of their own. He was human, they were elves, and even though Líadan was Dalish, she was still an elf, and that won over everything else.

“Don’t make me say it,” said Shianni. “If they knew what I know, it would be different. But they don’t.”

“Nor can they,” said Cauthrien.

“Sadly true.” Shianni stood as quickly as she’d first sat down. “I hate to drop warnings and run, but if someone from the Elven Quarter sees me sitting here with you, well.”

“Right, got it.” 

“Don’t let him drink too much,” she told Cauthrien and Oghren.

While Cauthrien merely nodded, Oghren met Shianni’s eyes for a long moment before giving her a solid, “Aye.”

Malcolm had no idea at all what that meant.

Shianni gave him a smile to tell him she didn’t hold anything against him, and then moved to another table on the far side of the room. Malcolm slumped further in his chair, wishing he were anywhere else. He played with his mug more than he drank the ale, because he knew if he started that he wouldn’t want to stop. Then he sighed and directed his attention toward Cauthrien. “Could I help train the army? Preferably somewhere not in Denerim?”

She gave him a flat look in return. “Is that a real question?”

“It wasn’t rhetorical, if that’s what you’re asking.”

She shook her head. “The Wardens already help. The recruits who leave Warden training for one reason or another usually end up joining the army. Gives them a rather sizable advantage over other army recruits, and a significant head start on training there, which means you’re already helping to train the army.”

“Oh.” He did nothing to hide his disappointment. Helping to train soldiers for Ferelden’s army would’ve felt like taking real steps toward getting his family back.

“It will only be a couple more years,” said Cauthrien. “By then, the numbers and the training will have both caught up, and the Orlesians will no longer be a threat to us.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you mean the Chantry?”

“Aren’t they one in the same?” There was a twinkle in her eye as she asked, and it was enough to make Malcolm laugh. Cauthrien showed her sense of humor less than Anora did, but it was there, dry and sparing. “Your request to help clearly indicates you need something to do. Has the Warden-Commander not provided you with enough work?”

“Hopin’ she will once she gets her arse down here,” said Oghren.

Malcolm ignored him. “There isn’t much to do, aside from what we’ve been doing. Active recruiting hasn’t been as necessary since we’ve a full complement of Wardens at every outpost, even Orzammar. There’s training, but unless we go into the Deep Roads or have the odd darkspawn sighting to investigate, it’s all the same.” He shrugged. “I’m busy, but I’m not, which really makes no sense whatsoever.” 

In other words, he had plenty to keep him occupied during the day. The amount of time he spent physically training with others, especially Thierry and Oghren, had done remarkable things to improve his already good swordsmanship. If he could get Alistair in the ring, he was fairly certain he could knock his brother on his ass. It was the evenings that got to him, when he went back to the rooms he’d shared with his family and found them empty. 

Maybe he should move back into the compound, surround himself entirely with Wardens. It’d make Alistair jealous, if nothing else.

“It does make sense,” said Cauthrien. “When you stop training is when your mind can wander to things you’d rather it not. I have some experience with it.” She drained what was left of her ale and stood. “I’ll see what projects are available, if Hildur can’t come up with anything for you.”

“Thank you.”

“You have no need to thank me. I lead Ferelden’s army.” She opened her mouth to say more, and then recalled where they were. “I will let you know. If you would excuse me.”

Oghren watched her leave before he looked at Malcolm. Then he reached out and pulled Malcolm’s tankard over to himself.

“That was mine, if you hadn’t noticed,” Malcolm said. “If you wanted more, all you needed to do was ask.”

“Confiscating it.”

“Why?” 

“Shianni got me to thinking.” Before Malcolm could comment on that revelation, Oghren kept talking. “You might try to start filling up that hole inside with ale—or liquor or wine or any other of your fancy surface drinks—but that’ll just be lava building up to burn you from the inside. So I can’t let you do it, you see, which means I get your ale.”

“So what do I do?”

Oghren shrugged. “I dunno. Hit stuff? I went with the ale.”

“I’ve already been spending large chunks of my days hitting things.”

“Hit more stuff. All I know is I can’t let you become me.” Oghren lowered his voice to a barely audible grumble. “Elf’d sodding kill me.” He raised it again. “Any rate, that means I’ll just have to help you with the hitting.”

The days afterward passed in a haze of swords and shields and papers, bruises and sleepless nights and looks of pity cast his way. In an effort to get some sort of sleep, he spent his nights at the compound and rarely visited his own rooms in the palace. The insomnia lifted somewhat, and so he remained with the Wardens. He did notice that other Wardens, especially the newer ones, avoided him a lot. Malcolm wasn’t quite sure why, because while he hadn’t been the happiest Warden, he’d been polite, never rude, and definitely had not wallowed in anything. Just a lot of work, both in the office and out. It got to the point where he started to believe he honestly would’ve killed for a reason to go on a darkspawn patrol.

Then Fergus came down from Highever again, Meghan with him this time. Both of them were serious due to what had happened with Malcolm’s family, yet they seemed otherwise content in some indescribable way. 

They invited him for dinner, but when Malcolm went over, it was Meghan who greeted him, for Fergus was still caught up in a meeting at the palace. From what Malcolm had overheard, it had something to do with an upswing in banditry around Amaranthine City and Waking Sea, and both Banns Delilah and Alfstanna had about had enough of it. They’d gone to Fergus, as their teyrn, and Fergus had brought the whole matter to Alistair and Anora to try to figure out. Malcolm did not envy any of them, and was happy enough to have those tasks fall to other people. Being a Warden, thankfully, involved far less politics. Usually.

“Fergus told me what happened,” Meghan said once they’d gone into a parlor to wait.

He and Fergus had discussed what would be shared with Meghan before Fergus had left for Highever again. It hadn’t been that they didn’t trust Meghan, but that anyone they told took the risk of running afoul of the Chantry. For Meghan, the impact could extend up to Starkhaven, and over to Sebastian, if the Chantry knew she was complicit. But Fergus had explained that Meghan would’ve gone along with him harboring Malcolm and Líadan and their children in Highever, if that had been an option, which meant there would be no point in keeping information from her. 

Still. It felt strange to hear yet another person expressing condolences. “I thought he might,” Malcolm said quietly, trying to find somewhere to look that wasn’t at his sister-in-law and didn’t make it obvious that he was avoiding eye contact. He chose the window and looking out across Denerim. It was a clear evening, so maybe he could catch sight of ships’ masts in the harbor.

Meghan cleared her throat. “I wanted to tell you… I think you made the right choice. I know I’ve never spoken much about what happened to me during the time I was between Starkhaven and Denerim, but…” 

He glanced over at her when she trailed off, and saw that she was wringing her permanently injured hand with her good one. It was enough of a departure from her usual composed self—the only person he knew who was more composed than Meghan was Anora—that he dispensed with preoccupying himself with the window and actually gave Meghan his full attention. “But what?”

She looked down at her hands, grimaced, and then returned to him. “It opened my eyes to what the Circle and the Chantry are really about. Both sides can be quite ugly, and innocents are too often caught in the middle. I wouldn’t want a child of mine there, either.”

“Even with the…” He slightly inclined his head toward Meghan’s hand. “You know, the problem you sometimes have with mages?”

“Even then.” A blush touched her cheeks, and she gave him a tiny, rueful smile. “It’s been a few years since my experience, and my outlook has gotten better from what it was. I admit, I do still have issues, but I know quite well that one does not require magic to do bad things, and having magic does not predispose one to take such actions. And no one deserves to be treated as anything less than human.” She frowned at the wording. “Or elven. Or dwarven? Oh, I don’t know. We have the expression, but since having gained more friends who aren’t human, it keeps surprising me how exclusive people other than humans some sayings are.”

Malcolm chuckled. “I doubt the elves would like to become human.” It was, after all, one of the main reasons he and Líadan hadn’t had more children. Human plus elf meant human children, which meant elves slowly wiping out their own people if they interbred too much. “They do appreciate being treated as equals, so there’s that.”

“It also stands to reason that if humans were a little more like the Dalish, your family could have stayed together.”

“Sort of. Ava still needs to be taught by Emrys, at least in the beginning. Maybe Feynriel could’ve taken over after a little while. I mean, I could’ve gone with them if the Chantry wasn’t the way it is, but even if I had, Emrys and his clan wouldn’t have allowed me to stay with them. We’d be a lot closer, though. I’d at least know where they are.”

“You don’t know?”

He shook his head. “No. I know where they initially went, and what their end goal is, but I have no idea where that clan is camped, nor do I know what route Líadan will take to get there, or how long it will be before any of us hear from her again. Safer that way.”

“I would say that you seem very lonely, but that would be a silly observation for how terribly obvious it is.” She let out a soft sigh. “I gather Fergus has told you that you’re welcome to stay at Highever for as long as you wanted, if you wished?”

“Yeah, he has. But I’m not sure if it would make things better. When I think about everything to do with Líadan that happened there…” His thoughts went wistfully to Highever and its grounds standing vigil over the Waking Sea. “No. But thank you.” He had seriously considered going, at first. Considering the home he’d made as an adult had been taken away, retreating to his childhood one seemed like some sort of comfort. But then he’d realized how intertwined Highever was with him and Líadan, and how so much of what he would’ve seen there would remind him of exactly what he was missing. It was where he’d told her he’d loved her and where she’d told him the same in a language he actually spoke. He’d proposed there. They’d had their bonding ceremony there. Tied up in Líadan as it was, it was too much a reminder of her and the people he missed to serve as a comfort.

“I understand,” said Meghan.

And he could see that she did. Fergus really had married a lovely woman. A woman that Malcolm still couldn’t believe was related to Sebastian, even when they had the same vivid blue Vael eyes. “Still glad you married Fergus instead of me?” he asked, wanting levity instead of the serious topics he was tired of thinking about.

“Very. You’re too much like Sebastian for me to have wed.”

His hand went to his chest. “Oh, you wound me, dear lady. You’ll have to take that back. I don’t invoke Andraste, the Maker, or vows _nearly_ enough to be even remotely like Sebastian.”

“You invoke them, little brother,” Fergus said from the doorway, “just not in the same way.” He clapped his hands together. “Now, I don’t know about you two, but after the go-around I had with the banns, I’m rather hungry.”

Yet, even after the levity they’d found, the meal was awkward where it had never been before, simply because of the number of empty seats that should have been occupied. 

Meghan did her best to fill the resulting quiet by pressing for gossip about her brother. “Last I heard from Sebastian,” she said, “he and Marian had entered into a chaste marriage.”

“Wait, that wasn’t a joke?” asked Fergus.

“No,” said Malcolm.

“I think he’s too stubborn for his own good,” said Meghan. “Should someone talk to Isabela? Have her arrange for Marian to have her way with my brother so he’ll come to his senses?”

Malcolm stared at her, desperately trying not to laugh. She couldn’t possibly have used those words inadvertently, right? But Meghan tended to speak cleanly, and her immediate thoughts often did not devolve into juvenile humor, so it stood to reason that she hadn’t meant what she’d said in the way Malcolm heard it. He glanced over at his brother to see if he’d heard the same. The moment they made eye contact, Fergus started laughing, which caused Malcolm to dissolve into giggles.

Meghan’s cheeks reddened as her lips twisted into a scowl. “Oh! Both of you, don’t be so childish. You know what I meant.”

“Then you’ll be happy to know,” Malcolm said once he’d gotten a proper breath, “that Sebastian changed his mind. Or had his mind changed for him, however it works. Isabela, as it happened, had much to do with it, but she had an unlikely ally in Lady Leandra.” He paused to to think it over. “The marriage was probably unchaste by the time we left Kirkwall, but I didn’t ask.”

“I’m sure Sebastian and Marian appreciated your show of restraint,” said Meghan.

Malcolm laughed again. “Marian wouldn’t have cared. She wanted to consummate the marriage right then and there when Sebastian told her he’d changed his mind.”

“They… they didn’t, did they?” asked Meghan. “I mean, Marian can be very persuasive.”

“The way you say it, you make Marian sound positively Antivan.” Fergus tore a hunk of bread from the loaf on the table. “Then again, she had been waiting for a very long time, with the prospect of forever, so I suppose one could forgive her if she pounced on him before he decided against it. Literally pounced, mind.”

Malcolm would never get that image out of his head. He might not even be able to look Marian or Sebastian in the eye ever again. “You’re horrible,” he said to Fergus. “Truly.” Then he looked over at Meghan. “I apologize for my brother, and offer you my sincere condolences for being his wife.”

Meghan smiled at Fergus before adding her own laughter to the mix. It was the first of many almost secretive smiles Malcolm saw pass between them that evening and over the days afterward. 

When they finally announced they were expecting an heir, it came as no surprise to him.

He was truly thrilled for his brother. Not only would the Cousland line be secured once more, but Fergus was a good father. He’d rather enjoyed it with Oren, and now he’d be able to do so again with another child, even after the painful loss of his first wife and their firstborn child. Yet, days later, when he expressed this sentiment to his brother as they walked from the marketplace to the Warden compound, he knew his face didn’t convey how he truly felt.

His brother’s inquisitive look told him so. 

Malcolm sighed and looked away, presumably at the ships at the mouth of the Drakon river. It was a cover for his attention while they walked over the Central Bridge, and a poor one.

“You’re either the happiest sad person or the saddest happy person I’ve ever seen,” said Fergus.

“We’ll go with both.” It seemed a decent enough answer.

Not to Fergus, however, who proceeded to poke him in the arm. It drew a wince from Malcolm and a raised eyebrow from Fergus. “Bruise?”

“Yep.”

Fergus poked him again, this time in the side, which also drew a wince. “Another one?”

“I’ve got lots. If you could stop poking me in some sick attempt at locating them all, that would be nice of you.”

Which meant Fergus jammed a finger in between his shoulder blades, and of course, there was another bruise there. 

“What? Do you want me to take off my shirt so you can see them all?” Malcolm asked. “I’d much rather that than you prodding at me to find them all, you ass.”

Fergus pointedly glanced at a few of the young women walking toward them, headed to the opposite side of the bridge. It was clear they’d heard Malcolm’s last comment, and their looks toward him were at once appraising and predatory.

Because of course they were, because if his wife had left him, it meant he was fair game once again.

“Why do I even put up with you?” Malcolm asked Fergus.

“Because Alistair is worse.”

Malcolm wanted to argue the point, because he didn’t want Fergus to win any points, but there was no argument to be made. “All right, you have me on that one.”

He chuckled and then clapped Malcolm on the back, which caused Malcolm to curse not quite under his breath. The blunted wooden blade of Oghren’s practice axe had caught him there at full speed. Fergus made a show of scratching his chin before he said, “Little brother, I don’t know if anyone’s told you, but your bruises might have bruises.”

Malcolm grumbled under his breath as they stepped onto the street that would lead them to the compound. He didn’t want to have this conversation with anyone, much less Fergus, because Fergus always saw way too much. “Oghren won’t let me drink.” Which was true. Tragically true.

“I’m not even sure how to reply to that,” said Fergus. “Since when is Oghren not an enabler?”

He dismissed the question with a wave. “He thinks I’d head down the same path he did when Branka went into the Deep Roads without him.”

“Is that the path where he drank as much as he could to forget about her taking off for places unknown and leaving him behind? That path?”

“That’s the one.” Technically, Branka hadn’t headed for places unknown—she’d been heading for the Anvil of the Void, which the dwarves believed they knew where it might be located.

“You know, he might be on to something there. Doesn’t explain the bruises, though.”

“Lots of time hitting and getting hit with practice weapons.” The part of him that wasn’t his taxed and bruised muscles crying out for mercy was fairly proud of how good he’d gotten.

“Have you tried getting hit less? I’ve heard ducking works.”

Malcolm gave him a withering look.

Fergus shrugged, entirely unaffected. “Hey, thought I’d offer some friendly advice. But keep getting bruised, if you like. Arms training _is_ constructive.”

“Can we talk about something else?” 

“No. You’re not any fun right now and I’d like you to be.”

“I’m working on it.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. But you’re sucking at it, so it’s time for others to step in. You need a distraction. Maybe a vacation. Do Wardens take vacations?”

“I already told Meghan that Highever would make things worse.”

“No, no. Not Highever.” Fergus cheerfully waved to the guards posted outside the compound and stepped through the open door before Malcolm could. “Other places, like, say, maybe some sort of mission to keep your mind and body occupied.”

Malcolm halted in the middle of the main hall. “Who have you been talking to?”

“You’d like to know that, wouldn’t you?” Fergus grinned before glancing down the hallway. Then he smiled even wider. “Wynne! It’s been months!”

Oh, so there’d been a plan, obviously. One involving his closest friends and family, even more obviously, and he suspected this would have something to do with fixing him. But he’d been fine. Sure, he’d been sparring a lot, but he’d been doing his job. He hadn’t sulked or wallowed in whatever losses he felt. He hadn’t let himself mire in what’d happened. He hadn’t been the boy he’d been during the Blight, which meant he did not need any saving, no matter what the others thought. Certainly, better distractions _would_ have been nice. It’d make forgetting a whole lot easier. But he really didn’t like the idea that they’d been conspiring behind his back instead of just talking to him about it.

Well, aside from his whole avoidance of talking about it, but they could’ve just been more persistent. After all, Fergus and Alistair had pushed the matter with him not proposing to Líadan all those years ago by literally sitting on him to get him to agree. Direct application of brute force did work with him, he’d admit that much.

As Fergus and Wynne exchanged pleasantries, Malcolm did his best not to glower. Besides, he was happy to see Wynne around again. Her lectures were the closest things he had to the memories of his mother’s lectures, so he missed them when she was gone. Then when she was back and lecturing him again for one thing or another, he realized he shouldn’t miss them. At least Wynne would be around to talk about—oh. No, she wouldn’t. They couldn’t tell her the truth about Ava and why Líadan had to leave with her and Cáel, because Wynne stood a good chance of going to the Circle about it, possibly even the Chantry. More than once, Wynne had made her opinions clear about how mage children needed to be instructed: namely, at Circles. 

His glower turned into a frown, and that was the moment when Hildur walked into the main hall, apparently having chosen _right then_ to finally arrive from the Vigil. At this rate, he was going to get sent to Soldier’s Peak, or even worse, Weisshaupt.

Then Wynne was standing in front of him, a slight frown pulling down the corners of her mouth, but concern in her eyes instead of disapproval. “Malcolm, you really are thoroughly unpleasant to be around right now,” she said. “I thought Oghren had exaggerated, but for once, he hadn’t.”

“Nice to see you, too, Wynne.” He put on the best smile he could because it was nice to see her, though he had some things to say to the tattling Oghren the next time he saw the dwarf.

“And that’s why I’m here.” Hildur gestured toward the stairs. “Come on, let’s go meet in my office.”

“That’s my office,” Malcolm said as he followed her. “Your office is at the Vigil. The one here is mine. I’ve even got a nice painting up in there and everything.”

“It is a lovely painting, isn’t it?” said Fergus. Which, of course he would say, because the painting had been a gift from Fergus.

Yet however much Malcolm protested, Hildur still took the chair behind the desk, leaving him to pick out another one. And to his surprise—or not, given his suspicions—both Fergus and Wynne also accompanied them into the room.

“I think,” Hildur said to Malcolm as soon as everyone had gotten situated, “that you miss your family more than you thought when you first found out.”

It was true; he couldn’t deny it. He’d assumed them being safe from the Chantry would help him through their absence, but he’d been woefully wrong. He also took note of how Hildur had worded her statement—altering the circumstances of their disappearance so as not to ruin the narrative Wynne would have been told.

And from the mutters of complaint coming from Wynne, she absolutely did believe what she’d heard about Líadan leaving with the children, and from the words Malcolm could make out in those mutters, Wynne was incredibly angry at Líadan for it. She sounded almost as angry with Líadan as Líadan had been with Morrigan after Morrigan had left right before the Battle of Denerim.

Right, so he’d be avoiding Wynne during her visit to court.

When Malcolm didn’t answer out loud, Hildur gave him a long look. “I think you need a distraction. Fergus agrees with me, as does Alistair and pretty much everyone else you know, so don’t argue with me.” When he kept silent, she nodded. “Good. Now, as it happens, Wynne needs a Grey Warden.”

“Lucky for her, we’ve got lots,” said Malcolm. “I bet Oghren would love to help her.”

Wynne sniffed. “As fond as I am of Oghren, he does not bathe nearly enough. He also doesn’t need the distraction of a mission like you do.”

“I don’t think anyone needs a distraction like he does,” said Fergus.

Malcolm suppressed the urge to argue and sighed instead. “Why do I get the feeling the three of you worked this out before I even stepped into the compound today?”

Hildur grinned. “Because we did.”

“All right, I’ll bite.” He looked over at Wynne. “So, why do you need a Warden?”

“I am in the middle of aiding in research that I had believed would be of some interest to the Grey Wardens. When I told Warden-Commander Hildur about the research, she agreed.”

“More than,” said Hildur. “See, she’s helping a Tranquil mage research Tranquility. Mainly, if Tranquility can be reversed. The other o is if Tranquility can be done in such a way that the mage doesn’t stop being themselves, but the Wardens as an organization don’t care about that part so much. But reversing it? My Ancestors’ stones, the Wardens would be all over that.”

Malcolm started at what the ability to reverse Tranquility could mean to the Wardens. It would be a large boon, significantly increasing the mage recruiting pool, a pool that would be teeming with mages who’d have huge incentives to leave the Chantry far, far behind. “That’d be a lot of recruits.”

“Yes, it would. And so I think the Wardens have a vested interest in providing whatever aid we can to help it along.”

“What am I to be doing, exactly? Is the research not Circle-sanctioned? Is there a need for protection? Because, if you haven’t noticed, I’m not so good at the magic thing, being non-magical as I am.”

“The research is sanctioned by the Circle,” said Wynne, “though its existence is known only to a select few, due to its rather sensitive nature. The research has primarily taken place at Adamant Fortress, because of its rather thin Veil, in addition to its distance from Thedas’ population. The other researcher, a friend of mine named Pharamond, is there now, but it’s been two months since I last heard from him. I need to see how he’s doing.”

Malcolm looked from Wynne to Hildur. “Isn’t Adamant a Warden fortress?”

She shrugged. “Eh, sort of. I mean, it was. The Wardens built it and held it, but after… Stone, I can’t remember which blight, but after one of them, the Wardens abandoned it. Others have used it since then, and they haven’t seemed to care. Last I heard, there was a small population there, but not much else.”

“In fact, there is a small population still there,” said Wynne. “The people living there mostly consist of folk who rather like life far away from the main areas of civilization, and prefer to keep it that way. They have been quite helpful to myself and Pharamond, however. While they like their solitude, they are quite nice.”

“Am I to be protection, then?” It really did seem like he’d be the equivalent of hired muscle. Not that he minded, but he wanted his role to be clear.

“In a way.” Hildur tossed him another leather-bound journal, similar to the one she’d had him take to the Vimmark Mountains. “There are some notes in there for you to read, and a lot of blank pages for you to write more. If it turns out that Tranquility can be reversed, and the Wardens take advantage of it, the Chantry will be very unhappy with us. Since we won’t be backing down from gaining a large number of capable recruits, we’ll have to maintain more fortresses, especially ones off the beaten path, like Adamant. I need you to record how viable a fortress Adamant still is, and if the people there now would be willing to work with the Wardens should we return. They won’t be kicked out, mind you. They’ll be allowed to stay, and hopefully work for us, either as staff, guards, farmers, merchants, or tradesmen.”

Malcolm imagined a map of Thedas in his head, gained from years of looking at them, though his knowledge of Ferelden and its environs was a lot more reliable than the rest of Thedas. In spite of that, he believed he did recall where the fortress in question was located. “Isn’t Adamant on the Abyssal Rift? Or is it the Abyssal Reach?” Maker’s breath, if he didn’t know better, he’d say they were banishing him. “Either or, they’re both across the Western Approach, best I remember.”

“Why, yes, it is,” said Fergus.

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “Why is he even here? He isn’t a mage and he isn’t a Warden.”

“He said he’d sit on you if you wouldn’t listen,” said Hildur. “Since you could probably manage to throw Oghren, I took your brother up on the offer.”

“My thanks,” said Malcolm. When the others didn’t relent, he shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “Fine. Sounds like a really good distraction and a really long trip, all in one. Who else is going? Not Fergus, I take it.”

“We’ll be picking up some others along the way,” said Wynne.

“We’re not going straight there?”

She crossed her arms and fixed him with _that_ look. “You have somewhere else to be afterward?”

Before Malcolm could answer for himself, Fergus said, “No, he doesn’t.”

Hildur stood up, effectively ending their meeting. “There we go. Wynne said you’d be leaving the day after tomorrow. The Wardens will be providing the supplies, including horses, and you’ve got tonight and tomorrow to pack. Your job, Malcolm, is to provide protection, since you’ll most likely encounter darkspawn somewhere in the Western Approach, to make a survey of Adamant, and do whatever else Wynne tells you do.”

Fergus chuckled. “That leaves the door wide open.”

“It certainly does,” said Wynne.

Malcolm groaned, and then Fergus put an arm around his shoulders. “Come on, little brother. It’s the last night I’ll see you for a while. Drinks are on me.”

Though he’d assumed he’d have taken full advantage of Fergus’ generous offer, Malcolm only had a couple drinks over the course of a large meal and more than a few hours at the Gnawed Noble. Others had joined them, close friends, Wardens, even Teyrna Cauthrien, and then some banns who were in Denerim for various reasons. But when the night wound down, Malcolm was remarkably sober and equally as thoughtful. After dropping Fergus off at the Highever estate, Malcolm opted to return to his room at the palace instead of the small room he’d taken to sleeping in at the compound. 

In his family’s sitting room, the place on the high shelf where the one-horned halla had been was empty, and a slim book about Dane and Hafter was conspicuously missing from the smaller bookshelf. Items, he knew, taken by Líadan and their children as they’d left.

He couldn’t begrudge them the memories. 

Beckoned by his own, he wandered into the children’s rooms. The staff had only made the beds, and left the rest alone. He wandered from Cáel’s room to Ava’s, where he accidentally scared Nuala half out of her mind, and his surprise at seeing her caused him to let out a yelp.

As she jumped, Nuala had clutched a stuffed toy to her chest. When Malcolm saw it what it was, he raised an eyebrow.

“She left it,” said Nuala.

Malcolm gave her a crooked smile. “That’s because she took that halla, instead.”

“Maker’s blood, she’ll poke her eye out with that horn. It’s like she’s determined to. Girl thinks she’s invincible.”

He outright laughed. “I recall feeling fairly invincible myself at six. Also ten, twelve, sixteen, eighteen, and probably up until the Blight, really.”

Nuala made an effort to smile at his humor, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Then she glanced down to contemplate the toy she held before looking at him again. “You know what I think?”

“I don’t, but I suspect you’ll tell me, regardless.”

She did. “I think you need to leave.”

He hadn’t seen that one coming. “What? Why?” Aside from startling her, he couldn’t think of anything he’d done wrong, but he didn’t experience life from the viewpoint of a woman or an elf, so there could’ve been something he’d inadvertently done. “Is this about me scaring you? If I’d known you were here, I’d have made more noise while I walked. If I did do something wrong, this would be a ‘teaching moment,’ as Shianni calls them.” Shianni had done a lot of teaching with him, since he was a tall, strong human male and often didn’t realize how intimidating he could be, even when he was intending to be anything but. Of course, now all that work was out the window because of the cover story for Líadan, and the Elven Quarter pretty much hated him.

“Not a teaching moment, no,” said Nuala. “Neither of us knew the other would be here, and you shouted as loudly as I did. So, no, not that.”

“Then why do I need to leave? I mean, I’m okay if you take all the time you need here. You’re as much family to them as any of us. Maybe more, considering.”

She shook her head, eyes blinking rapidly as she clutched the toy a little tighter. “No, it’s fine. What I meant was that you need something to do to keep your mind occupied.”

“Oh, not you, too!” He drew his hand over his face to keep himself from pointing at her. “Just for the record, your cousin, along with Oghren, shot down my original plan of remaining marginally drunk until the army’s ready.”

“I doubt you ever seriously considered that a valid plan.”

“Well, no, but I hadn’t thought of much else.”

“And that’s why you need a project.”

“No! Not falling for that, either. When I was younger, my mother and my sister-in-law said the same thing. Next thing I knew, I was sitting in an overstuffed chair being lectured on the finer points of embroidery.”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I was getting at. You taking up needlework.” She rolled her eyes. “I meant you need work that will actually distract you instead of the work you do here, which you could do in your sleep at this point. Keep up like you are, and soon enough you’ll be wallowing.”

“I will not.” Not immediately, but it wasn’t like he was going to admit it.

“Oghren’s got odds three to two on you’ll be doing so by next month.”

“Of course he does.” Before Nuala could start in on him again, he said, “Anyway, don’t worry about me needing something to do. Hildur beat you to it. I’m supposed to go with Wynne on some trip of hers into the Western Approach.”

“That… seems a little extreme. I’d thought the Free Marches, maybe.” She glanced down at the stuffed spider, and then back up to him. “When do you leave?”

“Day after tomorrow, I was told.”

“Good.” She nodded, more to herself than him. “Good.” Then she extended the stuffed toy toward him. “You should take this with you. And before you say no, let me tell you that I’ll find some way to get this into your pack if you do say no. So take it.”

He did. He’d learned not to argue with Nuala. The toy was soft and careworn after years of being toted around by a small child, and he hoped that Ava hadn’t been terribly upset by leaving it behind.

As Nuala headed through the doorway, she paused to ask hesitantly, “Have you heard anything?”

Now he was the one holding the toy close to his chest. “No. I haven’t.”

“You’ll see them again.”

“I hope so.”

Then she walked away, leaving Malcolm standing alone in his daughter’s empty room.

He left before the emptiness smothered him. After he strode into his bedroom, he thought better of it and went back to the common room. There, he found the book Cáel had been reading before he’d had to go with Líadan. Malcolm pulled it from the shelf, its weight heavy with the memory of his son’s inquisitiveness. Then he dragged out his pack and tucked the book and the stuffed toy safely away in the bottom.

Carrying them wouldn’t return what had gone missing in his life, but it would help.


	13. Chapter 13

“You have seen the greatest kings build monuments to their glory

Only to have them crumble and fade.

How much greater is the world than their glory?

The purpose of the world renews itself with each season

Each change only marks

A part of the greater whole.

The sea and sky themselves:

Nothing special. Only pieces.”

— _Tome of Koslun_ , the Soul Canto

**Malcolm**

Denerim was two days behind them before Malcolm realized he’d underestimated a little when it came to how Wynne felt about Líadan.

She was pissed. Royally pissed, if he were to use a term, and since he’d witnessed some of Alistair’s epic fits of pique, Wynne’s outrage was right up there. Except her outrage wasn’t loud and energetic like his—a great burst of anger that burned brightly and fizzled out once it’d gotten its say. No, Wynne’s wasn’t like that at all. She snapped. She snarled. She made _comments_ and _observations_ and grumbled a lot. 

Maybe the snarling was a bit of a hyperbole, but still.

Wynne had made it incredibly clear that she did not approve of the course of action she’d been told Líadan had taken. Then again, Malcolm didn’t think she’d agree with the actual situation, either. If she knew the real story, she’d be pissed at Líadan _and_ him. Instead, she was partly outraged on his behalf, which made the situation all the more awkward because he did not need anyone outraged for him. He also couldn’t ignore Wynne, because it was only the two of them, and she was the kind of person who immediately picked up on when she was being ignored.

He did his best at redirecting the subject to what they’d be doing and where they were going. Mornings were the worst, because he wasn’t entirely awake and she tended to catch him off guard, no matter how alert he tried to be.

This morning was no different. He got through lashing his pack to his saddle. Then, as he started to fasten his shield on the other side to balance it out, he heard a _tsk_ come from Wynne behind him.

“What happened to your other shield?” Wynne asked before Malcolm could address her disapproval. “Did Líadan take it as some sort of keepsake?” She said ‘keepsake’ like she’d really meant ‘war trophy,’ which she probably had.

He played dumb. “Hm? What?”

“Your shield.” She stepped around him to tap a finger on it. “This isn’t the one you normally use.”

“It took a beating the last mission we were on, and Wade couldn’t repair it to full strength. I grabbed one from Warden stores.”

“It isn’t as good as your previous one.”

“Well, no, but I haven’t exactly had time to visit Orzammar to see if King Bhelen wants to give me another one, or at least direct me to the smith who forged the first one. Aren’t we going through Gherlen’s Pass? I could take a side trip while we’re there to find out.”

She shook her head. “No. We haven’t the time. We need to go to Kinloch Hold before we go to Jader. There’s a young spirit healer I’d like to bring with us.”

“You just randomly decided this?” Because she hadn’t bothered to mention it before, and it seemed the kind of thing that needed mentioning.

“You have an argument against having another healer along?” She moved out from behind him and lifted her own pack to her horse.

Malcolm resisted rolling his eyes, because Wynne never responded well to that. There would be passive-aggressive comments for days. “Of course I don’t. I was just curious.”

“And where has your curiosity taken you, young man?”

“You’re mean in the morning.” Not that she wasn’t right, but she didn’t have to rub it in.

By midday, as they ate their meal while still in the saddle, Wynne finally relented and gave him a little more information. “The ritual Pharamond is developing requires spirit healers. At least one, but with it just becoming finalized, the more, the better. Aside from myself, the young man at Kinloch Hold is another.”

“Spirit healers aren’t exactly common, are they?” He’d thought it for a long time, and believed he’d heard it mentioned before. However, he’d also assumed it coincidence that the two strongest healers outside of Tevinter—no one knew anything about Tevinter’s healers—were also spirit healers. 

“No. Our way of healing can be difficult to master. Many healers are afraid to learn it, and with good reason.”

Considering the two spirit healers he knew were also technically possessed, he could see why. He didn’t say it out loud. “We aren’t going to Kirkwall, so Anders isn’t an option. Do you have any others lined up?”

“I… may.”

“That was wonderfully mysterious.”

“Yes, it was.”

Malcolm gave her the side eye, but she provided no other explanation, the thump of hooves the only break in the quiet. Wynne seemed to be more infuriating than usual, and he wondered if it was on purpose, or if it was just him.

He tried one more time for details. “Have I mentioned to you that I don’t like surprises? Because I don’t.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Which was no answer at all, really, and they passed the next hour in silence. It gave Malcolm the chance to appreciate the mildness of Fereldan summers and autumns, because his armor did nothing to repel the heat from the hot sun. The Free Marches had been miserable enough, and Varric had told him it was a mild summer for them. 

Malcolm wondered if runes could be added or woven into clothing or armor to cool off the wearer—or warm up, in the winter months. He didn’t look forward to being in a desert, not armored as he was, but it wasn’t like he could go without armor. What he did look forward to was the change in scenery. While he loved Ferelden and its lush greenery in a temperate climate, he had to admit to being curious about what the Western Approach looked like. He’d traveled through the Silent Plains before, but that was an altogether different kind of desert. It was the kind that a blight left behind. He’d heard the Western Approach had sand dunes, and the description of them had been fascinating. Maybe he’d get to walk through them, or over them, or however it went with sand dunes. The not knowing was part of the excitement, and his curiosity did not take him to unhealthy places. Not always.

“I imagine you did not like the surprise of waking to find your family gone,” said Wynne.

He groaned. Sweet Maker, but could she be persistent. “Wynne, please.”

She turned to face him, concern for him wiping away some of the anger she’d been expressing toward Líadan. 

When she looked him in the eye, he said, “Just stop, all right? Stop bringing it up. I don’t want to be…” He waved a hand as if that would explain.

She raised a knowing eyebrow. “Like you were during the Blight?”

“Yes, that. I don’t want to be that person again. I’m older, I have things to do, and dwelling on it serves no purpose.” All of which was true, so he didn’t break eye contact as he said it.

She harrumphed. “I suppose it would be for the best. You accompanying me on this trip is to be a distraction for you. My bringing it up would defeat that purpose.”

He’d been thinking that the whole time, but he’d been loath to point it out when she was currently his sole traveling companion. Suddenly, Kinloch Hold didn’t seem too bad an option for a stop, because it would mean another person accompanying them. 

It wasn’t until they’d stepped into the vestibule and the templar guards opened the main doors that Malcolm recalled that he hadn’t been to Kinloch Hold since the Blight.

His first impression was that it was a lot less fleshy than last he’d seen it. No lumps or bits of mysterious flesh-like _things_ scattered about made for a better introduction. Knight-Commander Greagoir’s welcome was genuine, and First Enchanter Irving seemed downright happy to see them. Still, the memories of what Malcolm and everyone else had gone through in the tower wouldn’t let him shake off his vigilance.

“You seem on edge,” Wynne said quietly to him as they followed Irving down the hallway. 

“Last time I was here, it was overrun by demons.” He kept his voice close to a whisper so none of the young apprentices nearby would hear. Some didn’t even look old enough to have been born before the Blight.

Wynne looked at him in surprise. “You haven’t been back before this?”

“Hildur does the recruiting with the Circle, so no, I haven’t.” He dodged an overexcited apprentice who was barreling down the corridor, and watched closely as she bolted into the dormitory. She couldn’t have been much older than Ava, and he couldn’t stop the unbidden image of his daughter in the child’s place, wearing an apprentice’s robe, and at the rather lacking mercy of the Chantry. The chill that ran down his spine reaffirmed the choice he and Líadan had made in her taking their children to the Dalish. Better they were with them and safe rather than constantly at risk of being taken by the templars—or worse, being taken by the templars and locked up in the Circle. He missed them terribly, but they were safe. 

It also didn’t help his outlook in the tower when he kept expecting a demon to jump out at every corner. But Wynne was giving him one of her looks, having finished frowning at the rambunctious apprentice, and Malcolm thought it best to say something positive. “The bridge is nice, though. I bet that helps with people coming and going, like the mages who’ve gone to work in the Bannorn.”

Wynne’s look on him was still cautious, but she nodded. “It does.”

He frantically sought a better topic. “Hildur’s been talking about upping how many recruits she pulls.”

“She’s mentioned it to me. She wanted to get my opinion on the matter.”

“She tell you that she wants anyone and everyone who’ll volunteer?”

“Yes, she did.”

“And?” Maker, this was like trying to get details out of Líadan.

“And I told her the Chantry wouldn’t approve, but I’m sure Irving would, and that Knight-Commander Greagoir might be convinced, depending on the volunteers.”

Of course she’d had the perfect answer. “Do you ever not give diplomatic answers?”

“Not within your earshot, dear.”

He sighed. As the years had gone by, it had become clearer that Wynne viewed him and Alistair as grandsons of a sort. It was awkward sometimes, aggravating other times, and endearing on some occasions. Today wasn’t one of the endearing ones. Maybe awkward trending toward frustrating, at best.

As they continued through the hall, they caught snippets of conversations from various apprentices. One he overheard nearly knocked him over—some sort of rumor that one of the Wardens from the Blight had taken a pirate woman and three greased nugs to bed.

With Zevran, it seemed, anything was possible.

Wynne noticed his discomfort. “Do you think that particular rumor is about Zevran?”

“I don’t want to think about it at all. Ever. How can you even ask that?”

“I take it from your pleas that the rumor does not involve you?”

“No! How could you—no! You’re trying to kill me using embarrassment, I know it.”

“The flush on your cheeks really is quite adorable.”

This was going to be a long trip. Worse than the trip he’d taken to Weisshaupt, and Líadan had appeared halfway there for the sole purpose of torturing him. And torture him she had.

Ahead of them, Irving let out a chuckle. 

They stopped outside the library and briefly introduced him to Knight-Captain Hadley, who stood guard just inside the door. He seemed a nice enough fellow, having opted not to wear the bucket helm most templars wore in Circles, and also not possessing the contemptuous glare most templars rested on mages in their charge. Malcolm still didn’t feel like holding an entire conversation with him, and hoped it wouldn’t be expected.

“Irving and I have things to speak about before you and I leave with the new healer,” Wynne said to Malcolm. “Find yourself something to do.”

He glanced around. It wasn’t like he was compelled to be cooperative when people were trying to ditch him. No need to make such things easy. “Like what?”

“You enjoy books, don’t you? Why don’t you go wait in the library?”

“You could just be honest and tell me to run along and play,” he grumbled. Then he headed for the library before Wynne could do something else terribly embarrassing, like ruffle his hair. Because she would.

He’d forgotten how large Kinloch Hold’s library was, probably because on his last visit he’d been preoccupied with killing rage demons who wanted to kill him. Without the rage demons roaming about, it really was relaxing. The shelves holding the books were so tall that ladders were required to get to the upper reaches, and he couldn’t keep count of how many shelves there even were with all the hidden alcoves they created. Desks and tables were set up for studious mages, and he saw here and there a weary apprentice surrounded by stacks of tomes, their face nearly planted in an open one, ready to fall asleep at any moment.

Malcolm empathized with that sort of weariness.

Shifting his attention from the apprentices, he wandered through the library, scanning the spines of the books for something that looked interesting. There was no telling how long Wynne would be, so he aimed for more than one book before he settled in at a free table. Some books he wanted to take just to show the people who should read them. Anders, for instance, could have done with reading _Guarding Your Mind: How to Prevent Possession_. Then again, Justice would probably have objections to it and express them with violence.

He left that book on the shelf. He did grab the book about griffons, though. Wynne needed to see it, and if it meant he borrowed it for the duration of their trip, so be it. He’d return it eventually. Then there was a book about lyrium bombs, which he didn’t know were even possible to make, and decided trying to would most likely get him killed. Almost as quickly as he had the possession book, he returned it to the shelf and continued on.

When he passed _Bathing Practices of the Orlesian Monarchy_ , he quietly laughed out loud. Only Orlesians would have an entire book about how their monarch bathed. Maker, it wasn’t complicated to keep oneself clean. After that delightful book, he happened on one about Elven relics. His curiosity wouldn’t allow it to go untouched, and his emotions insisted on reminding him of Líadan. So, he pulled it from the shelf and tucked it under his arm with the griffon book. The relic book wouldn’t be good for the distraction the trip was supposed to be, but Wynne had left him to his own devices. He wanted to sit down and look through it immediately, but while his written Elvish was leagues better than his spoken, if he wanted to get anything out of the relic book, he’d need a lexicon to refer to. Other times, he’d had Líadan to ask, but she wasn’t here, which was part of why he was here, needing distraction.

Right, lexicon. It took a while to poke around to find the language section, but once he did, he found the Elvish book easily enough. Then he found a seat at a vacant table, stacked his prizes on it, and started flipping through the relics book. _Eluvian_ caught his eye, but not even a sentence in, he needed to look a word up in the lexicon. 

While a rather awkward position, using his elbow to keep the relic book open let him use his hands to search the lexicon for the word.

“Whoa!” came a loud—for a library—voice from behind him. “What are you doing? Be careful!”

Malcolm turned to give the offended mage a withering look. “What?”

The young mage with copper colored hair had crossed his arms over his chest, and was doing a remarkably good impression of Wynne. “You’re bending the book too much. It’ll crack the spine and cause all the pages to fall out.”

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “I am not. And they will not.” Then he went back to searching for the word he hadn’t recognized. Though he could feel the mage’s outrage looming over him, Malcolm hoped the intrusive mage’s silence meant he’d be left alone.

His hope was quickly crushed as the mage turned conversational. “Browsing the chapter on eluvians? No one knows of any intact ones left.”

“So I’ve heard.” Malcolm wondered if he should make a sign telling others to let him be. Then he’d have to use a trick of Aveline’s that Merrill had invented and hit them with it. That’d get his point across.

“Do you even know what eluvian means?”

“Mirror.” He didn’t turn around and he couldn’t find the damn word because the mage kept talking.

“Seeing-glass. It isn’t just any mirror! It’s a special kind—”

Malcolm gave up and turned. “I know what it is.”

“Really.”

Oh, for Maker’s sake. Now the mage was haughty and that needed to be fixed. “I’ve seen two intact ones and three broken ones. Well, the third broken one was pretty much bits of sand. And the first two broken ones were the intact ones before they got shattered.”

The mage let out a strangled shout that caused the others to glare at him, but the mage near Malcolm ignored them. “You _broke_ eluvians?”

“Me? No. That was my brother.” It was true. Alistair had done the actual breaking both times.

“But you’ve seen one with your own eyes?” Now the mage sounded like a child eager for a story.

Malcolm didn’t feel like telling one. “You got me. I’ve been lying to you. I used someone else’s eyes.”

The mage sniffed. “There’s no need to be rude.”

“You accused me of accosting the books.”

“Those books are in Elvish. It isn’t like you can read it.”

“Not quickly, no.”

“You _can_ read it?”

“You don’t have to look so astonished. Just because I’m a Warden doesn’t mean I haven’t a brain in my head. And it isn’t like I’m going to page through a book just to stare stupidly at squiggly marks on pieces of paper.”

Before the mage could answer, Wynne approached them. “Good,” she said. “I see you’ve already met our new companion.”

“What? You’re serious?” asked Malcolm. “Wynne, he starches his robe.” Honestly, the robe could’ve stood up on its own.

“There is nothing wrong with cleanliness,” said the other mage.

“There is on the road,” said Malcolm. “Mud, dirt, rain, streams, rivers, horseshit, blood—”

“I get the point, Warden.”

Malcolm scratched at his chin as he closed the books. Clearly, his reading was over for the time being. “Maybe you should enchant your robe to not get dirty.”

“What makes you think I haven’t?”

“The look on your face when I told you about the horseshit, for one. You wouldn’t have looked so horrified if you had.” 

The mage frowned. “I thought this would be exciting when Irving told me, but now I’m not so sure.”

Malcolm grinned at him. “Can’t change your mind, now.”

The mage appealed to Wynne as a small child would a parent. “Does this Warden have to accompany us?”

“Yes, because we are going to a Grey Warden fortress,” Wynne said to him, “and we may encounter darkspawn on the way. Ferelden’s Warden-Commander thought it best to send a Warden with us.” She extended a hand toward Malcolm. “Finn, this is Senior Warden Malcolm.” Then she moved her hand toward Finn. “Malcolm, this is—”

“Florian Phineas Horatio Aldebrant, Esquire,” said Finn.

Malcolm raised an eyebrow as he resisted a chuckle. “That’s… quite a name.” The title meant that Finn’s mother or father—or any of the generations before them—had been a knight, and the eldest sons and daughters from thereon were esquires. No one really followed the custom anymore, but it was technically still accurate. Pretentious, though, especially when Wynne hadn’t bothered using any of Malcolm’s titles, however much he really didn’t want to be reminded of them at the moment.

“I shortened it because everyone called me Flora.”

Malcolm didn’t bother hiding his amusement.

Finn huffed, and then his brow furrowed in thought before he looked at Malcolm again. “Were you one of the Wardens who—”

“Kept the templars from invoking the Right of Annulment here during the Blight? Yes. You’re welcome.”

Finn waved him off. “I wasn’t talking about that. I mean, thank you, but I was talking about you being one of the Wardens who accompanied the King during the Blight. I think he had a companion with your name at the time.”

“Yes, I’m one of them, too.” Maker, but it was fun when someone didn’t recognize him. While Finn’s idiosyncrasies were a little annoying, it was refreshing to be treated like anyone else.

Finn peered at him. “Which one are you?”

“The dead Antivan, obviously.”

“For Maker’s sake,” Hadley called from his post by the door, “he’s Prince Malcolm. Finn, you’re the smartest person in this tower. Did you seriously not recognize him?”

“It’s the nose,” Malcolm said to the templar. “Always a dead giveaway.”

Irritated, Finn had straightened in opposition to the indignity and glared over at Hadley. “I merely wanted to confirm it.”

“You could’ve just asked,” said Malcolm.

“And you simply could have introduced yourself.”

“Why would I introduce myself to someone who scolded me before they even said hello?” He was fairly sure even Morrigan had been more polite.

Wynne sighed, sounding _remarkably_ like Riordan. “Both of you, let’s go.”

While Malcolm left the Elvish lexicon and the tome of Elven relics on the table to be re-shelved by the Tranquil who staffed the library, the griffon book went into his pack when Finn and Wynne weren’t looking. Hadley saw, but he only smiled and nodded.

“Have a nice trip, Senior Enchanter,” Hadley said to Wynne on their way out. “May you have the patience of Andraste to survive it.”

“I heard that,” said Malcolm.

“It does not change that he is right,” said Wynne.

Before they left the tower, they had to wait in the reception hall while Finn gathered his belongings from where he’d stashed them in a storage room. Then they were gone, traipsing down the long bridge to the shore, which really was a nice change from the tiny boats they’d had to use before. Finn got distracted as they walked, his eyes wide as he took in the sweeping views of the lake and its backdrop of the Frostback Mountains. It seemed it had been quite some time since Finn had left Kinloch Hold. The mage became so entranced that he halted to look at everything, and not having anticipated the sudden stop, Malcolm plowed right into him.

The impact sent the gangly mage spinning before he tumbled sideways onto the paving stones that formed the surface of the bridge. His stave clattered against the ground as he landed, and then Finn rolled over and pushed himself to his feet. His cheeks red with his outrage, he waved angrily at Malcolm with palms welling with dabs of blood from where they’d been scraped.

“Look what you did! Look at my hands! I’m bleeding!”

“You’re a healer. Heal them. Problem solved.”

Casting dark looks Malcolm’s way, Finn did so, and then unslung his stave to give it a once-over. When he found a scratch, his frown deepened before he focused it on Malcolm. “You hurt Vera!”

“I… what? Who’s Vera?”

“My staff.” Finn held his stave up to eye-level as he continued to inspect it.

“You named it?”

“Of course I did.” Finn raised an eyebrow and directed his look toward the sword riding at Malcolm’s hip. “You didn’t name your sword?”

“No. Why would I?” He didn’t mention that it would’ve been Maric’s responsibility to name the sword, not Alistair’s or his. 

“I thought you warrior-types named your weapons.” Finn almost sounded a little sad.

Feeling slightly bad for knocking Finn over, Malcolm cooperated a little. “Some do. I know a guy who named his crossbow, so there’s that. Oh, and Calenhad wielded a named sword. Nemetos. But when King Venedrin was killed in an Orlesian ambush in the Blessed Age, it was lost.”

“Lost? Your family lost a sword it held for ages?”

“We do that. We lose things. Swords, heirs, pivotal battles, thrones, and there was one Theirin who lost his mind and drooled a lot. Not Alistair, in case you were wondering. Might’ve been Arland. I’m not sure.”

“There is something very wrong with you.” The anger had completely vanished from Finn’s eyes, and he now merely seemed perplexed.

Malcolm shot him a smile. “If you figure it out, be sure to tell Wynne, because she’s been trying to figure it out for years.”

Stymied, Finn went back to ogling the scenery around them as they approached the shore. Malcolm changed his mind about not wanting to travel with this new mage. It was like _he_ was the older brother for once, the one doing the teasing instead of being the one teased. They might drive Wynne crazy in the process, but sacrifices would have to be made.

“I didn’t see Connor there,” Malcolm said to Wynne. He’d half suspected that their healer would’ve been him, even young as he was.

“He’d been given a pass to visit his uncle. He’d passed his Harrowing, and Irving thought it a nice gesture of good will and a reward for him doing so. Once he’s done with his visit, he’s being sent to Tevinter to undergo a formal study of the Fade.” Wynne’s tone became warmer. “It gladdens me that we saved him. He’s a talented young man.”

“Good.” Malcolm looked south, in the direction of Redcliffe, and nodded to himself. “Good.”

The sun was setting behind the Frostbacks as they reached the bridge’s intersection with the Imperial Highway. From there, one could choose to take the gently sloping ramp down to the Spoiled Princess, or to continue on the highway. Since Wynne and Malcolm had left their horses at Kinloch Hold’s recently built stables, they took the ramp. 

“Can you ride a horse, Florian Phineas Horatio Aldebrant, Esquire?” Malcolm asked as they approached the Spoiled Princess. He put special emphasis on the ‘esquire’ part.

“Of course I can.”

“Irving has agreed to lend us one of the Circle’s horses for the duration of our trip,” said Wynne. “I would not have asked if Finn could not ride on his own.”

“Where are we staying for the night?” asked Malcolm. “I could do with a real bath and not the washrag and water from my flask kind. Hot food I don’t have to make myself would be nice, too. Oh, and ale. Come on, Wynne. You know you’d like some good ale.” When she didn’t answer, Malcolm upped the temptation. “Look, if the Circle or Chantry or whoever doesn’t have deep enough pockets for you, I’ll spring for it. Also, warm beds not on the ground. Fresh linens.”

“I’m already sold,” said Finn.

Wynne’s soft laugh meant she’d already been planning on it before Malcolm’s begging. “All right, I suppose I’ve been convinced. One night here, and we’ll set out come morning.”

In the time since the Blight, the Spoiled Princess had flourished, becoming highly popular once the bridge to Kinloch Hold had been completed. They were lucky enough to get two rooms for the night, much less three. Malcolm ended up sharing with Finn, because Wynne claimed the eldest deserved her own room. He’d wanted to pull rank on her, but the single look she sent him daring him to do so kept him quiet. There were two beds in the shared room, at least, so it would be fine, as long as Finn didn’t snore.

Besides, being at the inn was nice in the first place. Wearing standard Warden issue meant Malcolm stood a good chance of going unrecognized. Considering the gossip, he thought it best. Hopefully, once they were in Orlais, he’d go entirely unrecognized and be treated like any other Warden. 

Their server turned out to be Felsi, Oghren’s wife. The pair had an interesting arrangement, with Felsi living a week’s travel away with their son, while Oghren kept his post at the Denerim compound. They’d tried living in the same house before, and after that, the same city, but they’d always ended up at odds. The solution of living on opposite sides of Ferelden had served to make their marriage surprisingly stronger. Malcolm found himself almost envious that Felsi and Oghren were only separated by five to seven days worth of travel. Meanwhile, he and Líadan might as well be on opposite sides of Thedas with how little he’d know of her location.

Felsi smiled at them as she approached their table. “You lot are looking well.” She jerked her chin towards Finn. “Who’s the new guy?”

“Another healer,” said Malcolm. “We requisitioned him for a while. Promised to give him back, but we’ll see.”

“ _Please_ let me go back,” said Finn.

Felsi raised her eyebrow at him. “You’re a strange one.”

“How is your son doing?” asked Wynne.

“Growing like a bad weed, according to my boss,” said Felsi, her smile growing broader at the mention of her child. “Oghren says he’s about ready to learn to use an axe properly, but the kid’s only four. There’s still time to convince him to be something useful, like a smith.”

“Oghren would sooner eat an anvil than let his son become a smith,” said Malcolm. The reason was Branka, Oghren’s first wife, who’d been a brilliant smith, but unstable in every other aspect.

“Perhaps a happy medium could be agreed upon,” said Wynne. “Zeke could be a brewer. A profession dear to Oghren’s heart, and one far safer than becoming a warrior, especially a berserker like Oghren is.”

Oghren had wanted to name his son after the Warden who’d died so they could kill the archdemon, but hadn’t been able to stomach a dwarf bearing an Antivan name. Hildur had suggested ‘Zeke’ as a compromise, insisting there was an Aeducan bearing that name in the Shaperate’s memories. Malcolm was pretty sure she hadn’t been telling the whole truth, but Oghren didn’t question it, and Zeke it was.

Before Felsi could answer, a bard who’d set up in the corner near the fireplace started up on his lute. Malcolm braced himself for a satire or song about what’d happened with him and Líadan, but he learned quickly enough that everything wasn’t about him. The bard sang the tale of the Black Fox, and mentioned nothing of current events.

Felsi noticed Malcolm’s stiff posture. “He already covered your tale in his rendition of the latest gossip, so you won’t have to hear it tonight. Sounded rough, though. Want a drink?”

“Please.” He considered his choices for a moment, recalling their last visit to the Spoiled Princess and the rather questionable sources of their ale and liquors. “What’s safe?”

“Rum is from Nevarra instead of Rivain, so I’d stay away from that. Brandy’s still turpentine. Oh, we’ve got mead. Good mead, too, not that bitter stuff from the Chasind.”

All three of them requested the mead, as well as whatever was on hand for the evening meal. Then Wynne bundled them off to bed after the bard had gone through the tale of Aveline the Knight, claiming she intended an early start and she didn’t want either of them to argue about it come morning.

They did, anyway. Their early rising time, coupled with the boring road, meant Malcolm and Finn got to know each other through bickering. Wynne managed to put up with it for an hour straight, ignoring them entirely and refusing to participate in their conversation, such as it was. After one particularly vehement exchange, Wynne whipped around with a ready glare and silenced them both.

“Not another word. Not until after midday or I will petrify both of your mouths shut.”

They took her seriously, and the rest of the morning was even more boring. Malcolm had forgotten how much time seemed to stretch on forever when traveling great distances. It had been a little easier during the Blight, since they’d had more people with them. It meant more conversation, which in turn also meant more bickering, but it got to the point where they had resorted to anything to pass the time.

Wynne slowed to a stop near a field with an outcropping of boulders. After Malcolm staked out the horses, he clambered up the boulder to sit where he could observe their surroundings as they ate. They’d already reached the opposite side of the lake from Kinloch Hold, and he could see the spire from where he sat. 

Then his seat moved.

Malcolm shouted in alarm and skidded off the rocks to land on his rear in the grass. Cracks and rumbles came from the boulder as it stood, and soon enough, Malcolm was looking up at his golem friend, Shale.

He glared at her, his heart still racing. “Scaring a man like that could lead to death, you know.”

She raised her stony eyebrows in genuine surprise. “I doubt the insipid prince could squish me.”

“I meant my death, Shale.”

“It would pain me to lose such entertainment, should it die. It should endeavor not to do so.”

“Then you shouldn’t scare me like that.”

“It should be more observant. It has traveled with me often enough to tell me apart from a common boulder.”

His glare faded due to Shale being very right. She was no common boulder and he should’ve recognized her before using her for a chair. “I’m sorry. I was preoccupied.”

“Yes, I imagine it was. The elder mage told me the news.”

From what Shale said, Malcolm realized two things. One, for all Shale’s dry, scathing remarks about beings of flesh, she had a heart of gold. Maybe literally, under all that rock, but she did actually care, though she remained absolutely incapable of not giving everyone shit. Two, Wynne was an incorrigible gossip. He should have seen it sooner, but there it was.

He frowned at Wynne. “You don’t have to tell everyone, you know.”

“I have not. However, since Shale will be traveling with us, I felt it pertinent she be aware of your situation.”

“Do not worry,” Shale said to Malcolm. “I will not gossip as the elder mage does.”

Wynne huffed, but did not deny the accusation.

“You’re a golem!” Finn said as soon as their was a break in the conversation.

“Really?” asked Shale. “Am I? I hadn’t realized.”

Finn paid no mind to Shale’s words. “A real golem.”

“It has encountered fake ones before?”

“Little ones. Tiny statues used as playthings for children.”

“Has it considered that those golems may be real, and that their tiny control rods have long gone missing?”

Finn’s eyes went wide as he considered the possibility, and then he stroked his chin as he continued to think it over. Shale, on her part, looked delighted that the new mage had taken her seriously.

“Shale,” Wynne said in warning.

“What? It is gullible, it seems. I shall enjoy a bit of sport with it.”

If Finn heard, he didn’t indicate it. Instead, he inquired about how Shale would travel, and Shale answered by showing how quickly she could run. Faster than a horse, Malcolm had learned years ago. Golems really were quite amazing. Too bad their construction had required killing dwarves using excruciatingly painful methods in order to trap their souls within the rock. When they’d found that out from Caridin during the Blight, they’d destroyed the Anvil of the Void right quick.

By the time they made camp that night near the bluffs at the mouth of Gherlen’s Pass, Finn hadn’t given up on wrenching more knowledge from Shale. His fascination extended to the composition of Shale’s crystals, which meant he wanted to touch them so he could understand them better.

Shale put up with it for only a few minutes before ending it. “If it touches my crystals again, I will crush it.”

“But I didn’t mean…” Finn sighed, and then lighted on a solution. “What if I buff them? They’d look even better if they were shined up properly. That slight blue will show quite nicely through the frosty white.”

“Would I glitter? I would like to glitter.”

“Yes, you would.”

Shale nodded. “A fair trade. It may study my crystals as long as it buffs them in return.”

“What?” Malcolm said from where he sat on the opposite side of the fire. “Is that how it works? You shine your stones together and now you’re best friends?” Then he frowned. “‘Shine your stones together’ sounds like something Oghren would say.”

“I believe I have heard him use that euphemism before,” said Wynne.

Meanwhile, Finn had taken the same rag he used for polishing his stave and started on polishing Shale’s crystals. Malcolm rolled his eyes and hunted for one of the books he’d brought with him. He’d just go into his tent and read using his glowstone. He set aside the griffon book as he looked for the myth book, and then thought better of it. “Wynne, I picked up some light reading for you. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

Wynne turned to see what Malcolm had extended to her. “You stole a book?”

“Borrowed.” He was almost offended. “Next time I’m at Kinloch Hold, I’ll return it.”

“This stealing of books from the Circle of Magi seems to be a habit of yours.”

“Borrowed!”

She’d yet to relent on her scolding look. “And the first one?”

Andraste on the _pyre_ , Wynne hadn’t even forgotten about Morrigan’s book. “Sort of stolen. They stole it first, and I stole it back at the behest of the original owner’s daughter. Anyway, I didn’t steal this one. I’ll either bring it back with me or give it to Finn to bring back with him when he returns.” He sighed, truthfully a little disappointed that Wynne hadn’t even bothered to glance at the book. “Do you want it or not?”

She sighed right back at him. Then she extended a hand and he placed the book in it. As soon as she read the title, she started chuckling. “Shall I read you one of these tales before I tuck you into bed?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.” This was the humor he’d been intending when he borrowed the book.

“What?” asked Finn. “Are you a child?”

“The insipid prince has always been much like a child,” said Shale.

“I love you, too, you big hunk of rock,” said Malcolm.

Wynne placed her hands protectively over the book she held. “Books and the stories told within them are to be treasured.”

“I’d sooner eat a book than read it,” said Shale.

“Then you stay away from my books.”

“As long as the fussy mage does not attempt to force me to read its books, then the books shall be safe.”

Their trip up through Gherlen’s Pass and into Orlais went pretty much the same as their traveling had the first day. Finn alternately gaped at his surroundings while complaining about the dust, Wynne and Shale traded jibes, and Malcolm participated in both conversations. As they descended into Orlais after the chill of the mountain pass, the Orlesian countryside felt like midsummer instead of early autumn. It didn’t help that the road to Jader clung to the foothills of the Frostbacks, reminding Malcolm of the comfortable temperatures they’d just abandoned. The mages with him seemed unbothered by the temperature change, their robes free-flowing and rather breezy. Shale, of course, wore nothing at all, and being made of stone, did not sweat.

Malcolm couldn’t wait to bathe when once they stopped at an inn, and if the ride went well today, they’d make it to Jader and said inn by nightfall. 

Which meant right when they reached Jader’s outskirts, Shale heard the deep, gurgling call of a raven and tore off after it in the forest.

“Where’s she going?” asked Finn.

“Oh, just part of her ongoing mission to exterminate every bird from the face of Thedas,” said Malcolm.

Finn turned to Wynne for verification. “Really?” 

“She’s quite serious about it,” said Wynne.

Malcolm readied to jump back into the conversation, but figures down the road caught his eye. “Armed men in the road. Is anyone surprised?”

“I am,” said Finn.

“You’ve been holed up in that tower of yours,” said Malcolm. “That’s the only reason you’re surprised.” As Finn muttered under his breath and Wynne shot an irritated glance in Malcolm’s direction for riling Finn up, Malcolm took a closer look at what waited for them ahead. It wasn’t promising. “Might want to ready those staves of yours. I can see two chevaliers on horseback, and at least four soldiers on foot. The chevaliers have lances couched under their arms while the others have swords at the ready. Pretty ballsy to be standing out there in the open like that.”

“I suspect chevaliers are accustomed to being obeyed without question.” Wynne sighed and pulled her staff out of its sling. Then she rested it on her thighs as they rode forward.

The trees around them were too far from the road to let them slip into the woods without being noticed, and even if they managed that, the foliage was too thick to ride properly through. There’d be too many branches flying back and into faces, which meant they couldn’t go around the soldiers on the road.

So they rode on until the chevaliers shouted at them.

“You there,” said one of the chevaliers as he pointed at them with his lance. “Come with us quietly and no one will be harmed.”

“Not so good at quiet,” Malcolm said to the chevalier with the silver mask. “I won’t be going anywhere.”

The other chevalier wore the same type of full-face mask with etched facial features, but his had a golden frond as a crest at the top. “You are not our quarry, Fereldan. We want the mages. They will be pressed into the service of Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons.”

“I do not wish to be pressed into anyone’s service,” said Wynne. 

There was a joke in there somewhere. Oghren would’ve cracked it. But Malcolm refrained from commenting, because he could feel Wynne readying a spell, even though she remained still in her saddle. Then she flicked her hands and the spell swept out, knocking the two chevaliers off their horses and into their men standing below them. While the chevaliers and three foot soldiers rolled in a flailing pile of armored limbs, lances, and swords, one kept his footing. He brought his two-hander up to shoulder level and charged for Malcolm.

Which really made no sense in Malcolm’s head, because the mages were a bigger danger than he was. Malcolm would have to get close enough before he could do any damage to them, while either mage could set them on fire without stepping foot into sword range. Maybe it was honor of some kind, choosing to charge the armored man first. Malcolm wasn’t really into that sort of honor, because it was stupid. Either that, or the soldier had no idea of the danger mages presented in combat.

When the soldier got close enough, Malcolm engaged his blade to bring him closer and get the sharp tip away from his horse’s body, and then kicked him in the face. The Orlesian went down and made one futile attempt at getting up before he decided to stay there. Good for him.

“Finn, take over with either paralysis or ice,” said Wynne.

“I could, but I can’t cast from horseback,” said Finn.

“So get off your bloody horse,” said Malcolm. “Preferably before they’re on their feet and coming after us.”

With a grumble, Finn slid off, and then hit the pile of swearing bodies with a paralysis spell.

And that was that. “Anyone else?” Malcolm asked. “Come on, let’s get on with it. We haven’t got all day.”

Wynne sighed. “You don’t have to tempt fate.”

A crossbow bolt zipped through the air to tear a hole in Finn’s robe as it barely missed its mark. 

“I believe my point is made,” said Wynne.

Malcolm scowled. He’d be hearing about _that_ for weeks. “There’s no way you could’ve seen that coming.”

Before Wynne could say anything more, Finn cried out, “I have a rip in my robe! Am I bleeding?” Then he promptly fainted.

Maybe they should’ve left him at Kinloch Hold. “You still want him?” Malcolm asked as he surveyed the forest along the road. “Not so great a battle mage.”

Three crossbowmen and another chevalier emerged from the trees. Malcolm now suspected there were more. If they came out, he was pretty sure they could take them. If they remained hidden, they would be in a sizable amount of trouble. 

“Perhaps aggressive diplomacy would be the wiser option,” Wynne said as the chevalier approached them.

She was right. He’d be hearing about _that_ for days, too. The new chevalier pushed the visor of his helm up—a proper helmet, Malcolm realized, though the falcon crest on the top had to be unwieldy—and did not remove his sword from his sheath. “Come now, Warden,” he said as he squinted up at Malcolm. “Don’t make this difficult. Give us the mages and you’ll be on your way, not a mark on you.”

“And get my commander pissed at me for losing two mages? No. And before you get violent, taking them by force would be a bad idea. One, they’re on a mission for the Grey Wardens, and the Wardens wouldn’t take kindly to having a mission of ours delayed. Two, golem.” Malcolm hoped Shale had stayed nearby and hadn’t trotted too far off, leaving them to their abductions or deaths at the hands of the chevaliers. Also, Shale not appearing would make him look really stupid.

The chevalier scoffed. “Have you a griffon in your pocket, as well? That is as likely as you having a golem.”

There was totally another Oghren comment in there. “No,” Malcolm said out loud, “it’s just what happens when a Warden is happy to see you.”

He didn’t acknowledge the joke. “Where is your supposed golem, Warden?”

“If it would like a demonstration of my presence,” Shale said as she stomped into the road, “I will gladly squish its nattering head.”

The chevalier seemed mildly impressed. “It appears you did not lie.” Then he took another good look at Shale, which resulted in him taking measure of his own men. With a nod, he returned his attention to Malcolm. “I find your argument compelling, Warden. You and your mages may go.”

As the chevaliers gathered, and then mounted their horses and rode off in the opposite direction of Jader, Finn sat up and shook himself. “I’m alive? We’re alive?”

“You would’ve been alive regardless,” Malcolm said to him. “Dead mages aren’t much good to them.”

“Yet they had no issue with dead insipid princes,” said Shale.

As Finn struggled to get back in his saddle, Malcolm glanced over at Shale. “In Orlais, you should probably refrain from calling me that, or they’ll figure out pretty quickly who I am. And since my coming on this mission is partly to get my mind off everything not Warden related, it’d be better if no one knows.”

“Others will not remain ignorant of it forever,” said Wynne.

He sighed. “I know. I just need some time.”

“I shall call it the insipid Warden, instead,” said Shale.

Malcolm sighed, nudged his horse, and resumed their trip to Jader. When they took ship at Jader’s port and started across the Waking Sea, he took great delight in Shale being seasick. Alistair had been right. Golem vomit was awesome.


	14. Chapter 14

“Those born with magic are at a terrible disadvantage, for demons can always rob them of their self. The evil is not the mage, but the loss of the mage, the loss of the mage’s self, and the suffering that inevitably follows.”

—from the writings of the Seer of Kont-aar, 8:41 Blessed

**Anders**

When Merrill appeared in Anders’ clinic just after sunrise, he took immediate notice. Merrill never visited down here unless she was accompanying Marian or Isabela. Neither Marian nor Isabela were in sight, nor would they be meeting Merrill here, for Marian and Sebastian had gone to Starkhaven, and Isabela had taken them on her ship. 

Anders couldn’t fathom why Merrill would visit him of her own accord, unless she needed healing. “Are you hurt?” he asked. Merrill often got lost in Kirkwall, and while she could defend herself quite well, if she’d been attacked with templars nearby, or Maker forbid, _by_ templars, she would be left defenseless. Either there would be a smite, or she wouldn’t be able to risk using magic, and she—

**_If templars have harmed her, they will pay with their lives._ **

_What’s this? Since when are_ you _defensive of Merrill?_

**_She is a blood mage, yet you have said she is our friend. Is it not just to come to the aid of a friend?_ **

_It… is. I just never thought you’d see my point._

**_Templars cannot be allowed to harm any mage._ **

_I know. I’ve been telling you that for years._

“Anders?” said Merrill. “You went quiet.”

He shook himself. “Sorry. I was…”

“Arguing with Justice?”

“Somewhat. He was concerned that you’d been harmed.”

Her eyebrows lifted a little in surprise, but she didn’t question it. “I’m not hurt, if you’re worried about that.” She wrung her hands together, belying her uncertainty when her eyes held such determination. “I know that you and Justice have had… problems, lately. And I know that Justice has a lot of problems with me, but he’s still Justice, isn’t he? And you’re still Anders?”

_Are we?_

**_Vengeance has not yet gained enough power to subdue Justice._ **

“We’re still ourselves, as much as we can be,” Anders said out loud. He wasn’t entirely convinced, but it was enough.

“I need your help. Both of you. It has to be both.”

Anders set aside the poultices he’d been putting together, and gave Merrill his full attention. “What’s going on?”

She quirked her head to the side for a moment as she tried to recall something. “What’s the expression Varric uses? I have bright news and I have dark news.”

“You mean good news and bad news.”

She smiled at the clarification. “Yes, that! I have those.”

“And what’s the good?” Anders didn’t want to hear the bad. Neither did Justice, even though they both knew they’d have to.

“I’m done with blood magic,” said Merrill. “I don’t need it anymore. I learned it to fix the eluvian, and I’m nearly done, and nothing I need to do now requires it. When Líadan was here, I showed her how far I’d gotten with the eluvian. We talked about… other things first, then—”

“She told you she thinks Ava is a mage, didn’t she?” He softened his tone when Merrill looked alarmed. “She told me while we were traveling to the Warden prison.”

Merrill looked at once both elated and sad. “She did. From the story she told me later, I’m not sure there’s a way around it. Were we still with the clan, and Ava one of the People, this would be a very happy thing. But then I think, if Ava’s father hadn’t been human, if he’d been some elf in the clan, maybe she wouldn’t have been a mage at all. Just Dalish, no magic. I don’t know. It’s so hard to see it as a curse when you’ve grown up believing it a gift.” She glanced down at her hands, inspecting them as she called magic forth to see it blaze along her fingers. Then she let it wink out and looked up at Anders. “It’ll be hard, won’t it, if she does?”

Before Justice could get a single word in, Anders summoned all his will and shoved him down. _Do not take over. You already ruined helping Líadan while talking to her. Let me at least help her through her clanmate._

A rumble of discontent from Justice went through Anders, but Justice did not push back.

“It will,” Anders said. “Once she’s discovered, they will have some difficult choices.”

“I wish I could help.”

“So do I.” And no matter where they were, there wasn’t anything either of them could do to help. It was a dark road their friends would face, and their inability to help would make it a lonely trip. Anders straightened to lift the foreboding he felt, and then hunted for another topic. 

**_You interrupted her explanation about the eluvian. I would like to hear it._**  

“You said you’d spoken to her about something else?” Anders asked Merrill, before Justice decided to ask for him.

“Oh! Yes, I did. Líadan told me that she’d gone back to the cave where she’d originally found the eluvian with Tamlen. Years ago, not recently. Just after the Blight, while they were searching for someone. There had been statues, she said. Statues of Falon’Din and Dirthamen on either side of the eluvian, placed like guardians.”

Anders stared at Merrill for a moment, surprised at how much they had in common, and equally as surprised that he hadn’t noticed it before. “I was there. I mean, I was there with her and the others. She talked about a bereskarn—a blighted bear—and how it was significant. I don’t remember how it was, but I remember she’d explained.”

“Bears are beloved to Dirthamen. One being there, even blighted, was a sign that Dirthamen’s statue was supposed to be there, instead of the Tevinter ones.” She smiled brightly. “All I need to do now is get statues of them and set them up like she said. I can’t think of anything else to do. It’s rebuilt, otherwise.”

Though Líadan had provided the last clues, Anders wondered how she would’ve responded to seeing the actual thing completed. She’d stepped into the cavern with such caution, and meticulously kept herself from touching even the empty frame. While Anders had noticed that she hadn’t, he hadn’t brought it up. Malcolm had mentioned it to Líadan as they’d left the cavern, in that way of his he had with her that got her talking and soothed her at the same time. It had been remarkable to see, even back then, and had only grown stronger since.

**_This was before_.**

_Before what?_

**_Before me._ **

_Yes._

**_Before Vengeance._ **

_Before Vengeance._

Anders missed everything from before. He missed traveling with his friends, with other Wardens, having idle chats as they rode, prying out the mysteries of relationships, or catching each other up on people they’d known before they’d become Wardens. One time had been when Malcolm accidentally told him about Ser Carroll, all because of a joke about the Queen of Antiva. Anders and the other mages had played many pranks on him and he’d never turned them in, nor had he threatened or harmed any of them. Addled as he was, he’d been all right. And now, Anders realized, between the years and the lyrium and whatever else, Ser Carroll was probably dead.

**_He was a templar_.**

_He was a good man. Terrible templar, but that’s part of what made him good. Not everything is as black and white as you see it. Sure, he was a templar, but he’d never hurt a fly. He did get fussy about the rules, but he followed them well enough in spirit that he never hurt anyone, nor did the thought occur to him. That was even after all those times we pranked him. Honestly, he should’ve gotten a medal for his restraint._

**_He was still a templar._ **

_And Merrill was a blood mage, and yet here she stands, our friend._

**_Reformed. She is reformed and our friend. Was Ser Carroll a friend?_ **

_No, not really. Templars can’t exactly be our friends._

**_Just so._ **

And so Anders missed his old life even more. He missed his friends, and after the last time he’d been able to see them, memories were likely all he had left. Yet, even then, he clearly remembered that while Líadan had been perfectly fine with the hopelessly shattered eluvian in Cadash thaig, she’d been skittish around the one in the Brecilian Forest. 

He brought himself out of his memories and to the present with Merrill. “I’m surprised she told you,” he said to her. “She’s never really liked that particular eluvian, to put it lightly.”

“I know.” Merrill’s sadness returned, clashing with her incongruously bright outlook for a blood mage. Former blood mage. “She told me she felt guilty about Ava—that she’d had a child with the Gift, but the child wasn’t one of the People. Her way of making up for it was to help me.”

While Anders had known about the guilt, he hadn’t realized how pervasive it was. It’d been six years since Ava had been born. Six years for Líadan to grow past lessons instilled in her during her youth, yet she hadn’t escaped, not after all that time. “Is it that bad?”

“Worse for her, I think. You’ve met her grandfather. If the Dalish wanted any magical line to continue, it would be his. You’ve seen what he can do. For the People to lose that… that’s the guilt she’s fighting.”

**_The Keeper’s command of the Fade approaches that of a spirit. A child of his line must not be allowed to be taken by the Chantry._ **

_She won’t. They’ll make sure of it._

**_They are mortals. They cannot account for all possibilities, nor can they stop them. Not while the Chantry exists._ **

_They’ll manage._

Justice’s desire to protect the mages fueled his outrage over their treatment, and he surfaced past Anders’ efforts to stop him.

“What will the child’s caretakers do?”

Merrill appeared slightly cross, but only for a moment before she offered a small smile. “Hello, Justice. If you’re here as a friend, you’re welcome to stay.”

“You said you are no longer a blood mage. Is this true?”

_Maker, Justice, you can be an ass. She asks if you’re a friend, and you respond by calling her a liar?_

**_I did not call her a liar. I merely seek to verify the truth._ **

_Pretty much the same._

“I believe so,” said Merrill, who didn’t seem to take offense at the question. Most likely, she’d expected it. “I mean, if we’re ever in trouble and we can’t be saved otherwise, I might use it. But only in self-defense or to defend my friends. Family. My first clan, the Mahariel, and my clan here in Kirkwall. I won’t let any of them—any of you—die if I can help it.”

“That is a noble aspiration. An acceptable compromise. I will see to it that it is never necessary.”

_If you think you can do that, go right ahead. Now, could I have my body back, please?_

Justice relinquished control and stepped into the background of Anders’ mind. Anders shook himself and then focused on Merrill. “So that was your good news, obviously. You’ll be safer. Everyone will be safer.”

She nodded. “I know. But to be really safe, and for me to be able to finish the eluvian, I need to deal with the spirit. I don’t dare complete it before the spirit is killed. I promised Líadan I wouldn’t.”

“I take it that’s the bad news.” After all, it was never good news when it came to battling demons. Anders added more poultices to the pile, and then began to go over what potions they would need.

“I can’t imagine it would be good.”

“No, not really.” He started to gather up some of the finished poultices. If they were going to fight a demon, they’d need them. Then ran his fingers over the potions lined up on the shelves. 

“Lyrium,” said Merrill. “We’ll probably need that.”

“Pick out whatever else you think we’ll need.”

When she didn’t reply, he glanced over. She looked up at him, down at herself, and then pointedly up at the shelves.

He laughed, but it was a friendly laugh. “I’m sorry. I forget how tall I am. And how not-tall you are.”

Her eyes went wide in surprise. “How could you forget how small I am compared to you?”

“I don’t know, really.” He shrugged. “I suppose it’s the way you act, especially when you’re using your magic. You stop being a small elf and seem larger, more in control and confident, as if you’re doing what you were born to do.”

“Because I am. Magic is part of me. Part of who I am. Using it feels… comfortable? I’m not sure I can find the right word. But you’re a mage, so it’s likely you understand.”

“I do.” And he did. It was something every mage shared, the natural extension of the self that their magic was. Unless their magic was there with them, a steady companion to call upon, it didn’t feel right. Even Líadan, who usually only grudgingly used what magic she possessed, had admitted to feeling strange what it wasn’t at least there in the background. “All right,” he said out loud, “ _point_ out the potions we’ll need and I’ll get them from the shelf. And while you do that, tell me more about this plan of yours. For instance, who else will be going, because I don’t think just the two of us can handle a pride demon.”

She pointed at various draughts as she relayed what steps she’d put in place before coming down to visit him. “I asked Aveline and Varric, and they’ve agreed. I didn’t think Fenris would be appropriate, not for this, not while Hawke’s away. I did think about asking Carver, but I can’t get in touch with him at the Gallows. Varric tried, but he said his contacts have gone quiet. So it’s just us, but I’m not really sure about Varric and Aveline.” Her hand briefly covered her mouth. “Oh! That sounded bad. What I mean is if something goes wrong, I’m not sure they’ll be able to do what needs to be done.”

Anders stopped fiddling with the potions so he could face her. “If the spirit wins, it would be disastrous. You know this. You’re too powerful. Combine your power with a pride demon’s strength, and you’d be a menace to all the Free Marches.” He wished he were embellishing, but he wasn’t.

Merrill fidgeted. “I know. And if it happens, Justice will recognize it the soonest. If the spirit possesses me, I need Justice to strike me down. Before…” Her voice drifted into a terrified whisper. “Before I could hurt anyone.”

**_I will do this. It is just._ **

_I don’t want to kill Merrill. I don’t want to see her die. Not when she’s come this far._

**_Then we must do what we can to help her prevail over the demon._ **

Anders didn’t disagree.

Meanwhile, Merrill had started pacing. “There’s no one else I can trust to do it quickly enough. And I don’t want to go into this alone. You’ve always been a compassionate healer, and I’d like that Anders to come with me, in case it’s the last time I’m me.”

Beyond the healing she and the rest of them would need from fighting a pride demon, Anders could see the pain lurking in her eyes. It was pain every mage faced—the dark fear of losing everything they were. He could help her with this, even if it was just his presence. Líadan would want him to. Probably command him to, if she could. He owed her recompense for how he’d acted during their trip to the Warden prison. Maybe helping Merrill would bring back some of the trust Líadan used to have in him, in Anders the healer.

**_I will not interfere with your healing. It is necessary._ **

“I can do that,” Anders said to Merrill. “Do you know exactly where you can reach the demon on Thedas and not in the Fade?” He hoped it wasn’t the place he believed it to be. 

“The spirit is sealed in a cave near the top of Sundermount.”

Of course it was.

**_More than one demon resides in the statue._ **

_I know._

**_Great care must be taken in freeing the pride demon, or others will escape and possess whomever they can, mage or no._ **

_I know._

**_If the worst happens, you may require my assistance._ **

_I know. Let it go, for now. Until we can’t._

Justice grumbled, but let the matter rest.

“When do you plan on going?” Anders asked.

“You wouldn’t, by any chance, have any plans for today, would you?”

He sighed. “I figured.”

As it turned out, Merrill had asked Varric and Aveline the day before, and they showed up at the clinic as Anders finished packing the necessary potions and poultices. With Varric telling stories, they headed for Sundermount in better spirits than Anders had expected. He agreed with the sentiment, though. Considering what possibilities awaited them on the mountaintop, they were better off seizing what cheerfulness they could.

Before things could get too cheerful, Justice kindly reminded Anders that they’d never gotten an answer about what Ava’s situation would end up being if she were a mage. Justice then informed Anders that if he did not ask, he would take over and ask for them. Not for the first time, Anders wished the spirit he’d taken in wasn’t so pushy.

“Merrill,” he said in the next break between Varric’s stories, “you never said what Malcolm and Líadan will do if Ava’s a mage.”

“Their daughter’s a mage?” asked Aveline. “That’s the first I’ve heard of it.”

Anders shot a glare at her. “And it should be the last. She might not even be one. There were just suspicions.”

Before Aveline could reply and the conversation quickly devolve into another argument between Anders and Aveline, Merrill said, “Isabela invited them to become part of the crew on her ship. She wants to take Ava on as an apprentice!”

Anders stared at her for a moment.

“Rivaini has some of the best ideas,” said Varric. “She should write more friend-fiction, I say. Even if Princeling and Princess don’t go the pirate route, Rivaini could make a fortune from writing a story about if they had.”

“All right,” said Anders, “let’s say they don’t take up Isabela on her offer of piracy. Which, by the way, is the most likely outcome—not becoming pirates. What will they really do?”

Merrill took more than a few steps as she went over her reply, and then kept her eyes on the trail in front of her as she answered. “They’ll go to the Dalish, I think. Keeper Marethari would allow them to stay for as long as they needed while they looked for another clan. But I don’t think they’d stay with the Mahariel for too long. The clan has changed too much, and it’s too dangerous to stay on Sundermount for an extended amount of time. In the end, they’ll likely travel with the Ra’asiel. They’ll just have to find them. Keeper Lanaya would be a good teacher, as would her First, Oisín.”

“They would teach a human so willingly?” asked Aveline.

“Those of the Ra’asiel clan would, yes. They’re more open than most clans. Quite the opposite of the Suriel, actually.”

“The Suriel?”

“Sorry!” Merrill gave Aveline an apologetic look—Merrill was astoundingly good at them. “I keep forgetting you weren’t there when Ava was born, or after, because you were cleaning up the city. Líadan’s grandfather came to help. He’s the Keeper of the Suriel.”

“Why wouldn’t they go to his clan, then? They’re his family. He should be taking them in.”

Anders thought the same, as did Justice, but the Dalish views were quite different from their own.

“They aren’t Dalish,” said Merrill. “Well, Malcolm and the children aren’t. Líadan still is, but she isn’t going anywhere without the others. The Suriel clan is the most reclusive of the clans. They rarely come into contact with humans and do most of their trading through the dwarves. It was… a very big deal for Emrys to come into Kirkwall like he did.”

“He was obligated to. He had to help his granddaughter.”

Sometimes, Anders realized, Aveline’s outlook was more black and white than even what Justice saw.

“It’s… complicated,” said Merrill.

“But this other Keeper will agree to be the child’s teacher?”

Merrill clapped her hands together. “Oh, yes! Lanaya would love to, I think. She’ll be very good at it.”

**_The Dalish Keepers have proven to be strong mages, both of power and will._ **

_I agree._

“They’d better be able to keep the magic a secret, if she’s got it,” Aveline said. “Otherwise, the Chantry will come down hard on Ferelden.”

Varric gave her an exaggerated look of shock. “Why, Aveline, did I just hear you advocate for someone to skirt the law?”

“I skirt the law all the time when I’m with you, Varric. And it’s not civil law we’re talking about, here. It’s Chantry law. My first husband was the templar. I am not. So long as the girl has teachers and learns to control her magic, there’s no reason for interference unless she becomes a danger.”

Indignity flared up within Anders at the comment. “Not all mages are dangerous.”

“I realize that. Even you’ve proven to be less dangerous than I once believed.” Aveline shot him a look that was more tired than judgmental. “I’d thought you’d have gone out in a blaze, taking many people with you, but you haven’t. You’ve impressed me.”

“Well,” said Anders, trying to sound lighthearted and ending up sounding more bitter than he felt, “the day is young.”

Now she looked annoyed. “That was a compliment, you ass.”

He sighed. “No, it wasn’t.” She might’ve meant it as one, a very honest expression of how she viewed him, but the condemnation was still there. Just smaller.

After an uncomfortable quiet, Varric took up his stories again. 

The Mahariel clan’s hunters glowered at them as they entered the Dalish camp, but it didn’t bother Anders. They glowered every time, and he’d become inured to it. What did bother him was the deep sense of wrongness he felt as soon as they stepped foot beyond the hunters. It didn’t help that he couldn’t see the Keeper. Usually, she could be found at the clan’s communal fire, or within the camp, speaking with various people. But he couldn’t see her, not over any of the elves’ heads. He was honestly shocked that she hadn’t been waiting for them. Keepers were like that, with the knowing of things they shouldn’t.

“Where’s the Keeper?” he whispered to Merrill.

“Maybe she’s in her aravel. Someone would’ve told her we were coming—the hunters on patrol would have seen us as we approached and sent someone to tell her. If she wanted to see us, or me, really, she’d have come out of her aravel. But she hasn’t. And if she doesn’t want to speak with me, I’ll not bother her.” She stopped and surveyed the camp. “We’ll go see Master Ilen before we head up. I’d like to know how he feels.”

Anders had always felt more comfortable around Ilen. He was more open and friendly than many of the Dalish, and had even approved of Malcolm. From what Líadan had told him, Ilen had even encouraged Malcolm to assist with the bow he’d given her to ask her to bond. If anyone would cooperate, it would be Ilen.

Except, when they asked, they discovered that he had finally changed, too.

“No, I’ll not carve any statues for you, nor will I let you take any of the extras, either,” Ilen told Merrill.

So much for Ilen’s openness. To Anders, he almost seemed a different person, the warmth practically gone from his eyes, leaving Anders feeling unsettled. Justice felt the same.

Merrill stared at Ilen like he was an impostor. 

The elf before them was a stranger, a stranger who answered in sentences meant to cut and jab while wearing the once warm and open face of a friend. “The eluvian has stolen lives by taking young souls from this clan. I won’t help it steal more. Neither should you.”

Anders knew, as anyone did, that you couldn’t go home again. But with the Mahariel, what once had been home had been wrecked and razed.

Merrill’s eyes widened slightly, unable to hide her surprise. “Líadan said you’d be able to help me.”

Ilen pursed his lips, as if Merrill’s declaration had given him pause. Then he shook his head. “If she were here to tell me herself, perhaps I would. One of the lives stolen would have returned to us. If that happens, if she is here at your side the next time you ask, I will help you.”

Her shoulders slumping just a little, Merrill strode away and toward the head of the trail up Sundermount without asking Ilen again. She hadn’t taken more than a few steps up the trail before she straightened her shoulders. “We’ll deal with the spirit first, and then I’ll invoke _vir sulevanan_. They might not see the future in the eluvian, but I do, and I will help them see.”

“I thought you said Master Ilen was friendly.” Aveline slung on her shield and loosened her sword in its scabbard. 

Anders saw it a wise course, since they’d never managed a trip up Sundermount without opposition from Fade creatures. Well, except that one time when he’d gone up and met Justice. He took out his stave, just in case.

“He… was.” Merrill had taken out her own staff and was using it as a walking stick. “He and the rest of the clan, they haven’t been quite themselves in a while. Líadan’s said the same. It’s why she won’t visit them, not anymore. It has to be Sundermount, being so close for so long.” She frowned up at the peak of the mountain that was perpetually shrouded in dark, swirling clouds. “It bothers me that they’re still here. They should have moved on ages ago.”

“Have you asked why?” asked Aveline.

“I have and so has Líadan. Even Keeper Emrys asked when he was here years ago. All Keeper Marethari will say is that the clan still has business here, and they’ll leave when it’s time.”

“So, not much of an answer at all,” said Varric.

“No. Not really.”

“You’d think a mountain filled with creepy Fade beasties would convince anyone to leave. Maker, who thought putting a demon in a cave here was a good idea in the first place?”

Merrill raised an eyebrow. “And where would you have put it?”

“Farther away from Kirkwall, that’s for sure.”

“Kirkwall didn’t exist when this demon was bound. It happened during the terrible battle here, when the last of _Elvhenan_ fought Tevinter.”

Varric paused just long enough to give Merrill a disbelieving look. “Are you shitting me?”

As much as Varric seemed shocked, Merrill seemed truly puzzled. “No? I thought you knew all the stories.”

“Hahren Paivel neglected to tell me that one.”

She sighed. “I can see why he didn’t. The horrors unleashed during that battle wasn’t one of our proudest moments. ”

“History can’t only be happy stories, Daisy. Without the sad ones, the happy ones have less meaning.”

“You’ll make this one a happy one, won’t you?”

“We’ll have to make sure it doesn’t end with us murdering you on some mountainside. It’s a little hard to make that one sound good.”

“I’ll say,” said Aveline.

Then it was quiet again, and on Sundermount, it made one’s skin itch. A vague discomfort that couldn’t be assuaged, and it let the mind wander to the frightening possibilities lurking on the mountain. Even Justice wasn’t unaffected, and from the body language from the rest of the group, Anders knew they weren’t alone.

Aveline resumed her questioning of Merrill. “If something goes wrong, what should we be prepared for?”

Merrill shrugged. “I’m not entirely sure. When a mage becomes an abomination, they warp and change before your eyes. But I’ve never seen a mage turn entirely. If they’re fighting a spirit, they’ll go back and forth. Themselves one instant, then looking like an abomination the next, then back to themselves. So you can’t strike too soon, but you can’t wait too long, either.”

“So you have no idea when we should do something if it goes wrong?”

“That’s why Anders is here. Justice will see it first.”

“Oh, that’s reassuring.”

Merrill frowned over her shoulder. “Justice is all right, Aveline. It’s Vengeance who isn’t.”

“Then how about we encourage Justice?” said Varric. Then he grimaced. “That was a little more existential than I intended.”

“I’ve seen one, Aveline,” said Anders. “And, no, I wasn’t looking in a mirror at the time.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You thought it. Or something like it.” He would have, in her position. While he might have sounded like he blamed her, he didn’t, not really. Yet, he didn’t bother explaining, instead leaving it where it precipitously stood.

Aveline let out a sigh. “When did you see one, Anders?”

“A few months after I became a Warden, in Ferelden.” Then he told the others what had happened to Velanna, how the Chantry’s dogged insistence on performing a Harrowing on a non-mage had ended with Velanna’s death. She’d been put into an impossible situation, and that had taken away any chance she’d had to come to terms with what’d happened to her before. Exiled from her clan, finding her niece killed by a templar in order to keep the darkspawn from getting her, and then having to kill her own sister when she’d become a ghoul. She’d been proud and powerful, but was no less vulnerable to strong emotion than anyone else. If she’d been given a chance to heal, she would have been fine. “Instead,” he said as he finished up the story, “we lost a good mage who would’ve made a pretty good Warden. She just wasn’t given a fair chance.” He roused himself from the melancholy of the memory. “So, Merrill’s right. Look for a change in features that stays for more than an instant. It’s easier to see when you aren’t in the middle of a fight, but you can still catch it, even then.”

From the despondent look in Merrill’s eyes, it was clear she hadn’t entirely taken in the details of Velanna’s death the last time Anders had told the story. “Was… was as she given the Dalish funeral rites? Was she buried as one of the People?”

“As much as we could. With her body being mostly one of an abomination, we had to burn it so it couldn’t be possessed again. But then we took her ashes and buried her next to where her niece had been buried.” He struggled to remember the entire rite. “With a cedar branch, oaken staff, and the sapling, I believe.”

“That was nice of you. Thank you.”

“It was the least we could do. Even though she turned, she did save one of the other Wardens.”

Then they were quiet again as they continued, the memories and dread too strong to push aside with conversation. Merrill insisted on stopping at the altar to Mythal, offering a prayer before they went onward. Even as they headed right for the cave Anders was well familiar with, even as they headed for the room at the end of the cave, he kept that it wouldn’t be the same room. That it wouldn’t be the same statue. That it would be different and easy and not the trouble he believed it would be. Then they were in the last room, in the same room lined with mocking, grinning skulls, and it was the same statue.

But the horror didn’t take him until he saw the statue smashed and scattered across the ancient stone floor. And, in the midst of the destruction, stood Keeper Marethari.

_Shit._

**_The demons have been set free._ **

_Shit._

**_One still lurks. It may have taken the Keeper._ **

_Shit._

**_You seem to have lost every word except one._ **

_I can’t think of any others that apply._

**_I can. Injustice._ **

“Something is terribly wrong,” Merrill said as she stared at Marethari. “Keeper, what have you done?”

**_The demon is taking the Keeper. She will turn soon if she does not fight it._ **

_I thought Keepers were smarter than that._

**_As did I._ **

“The demon’s plan was always for you to complete the mirror,” Marethari said to Merrill, not looking at anyone else in the cave, as if they didn’t exist. Perhaps, to her, they didn’t. “It would have been a doorway out of its prison and into our world. You would have been its first victim.”

Merrill’s chin quivered as Marethari spoke.

Marethari regarded Merrill with the desolation of lost hope. “I couldn’t let that happen, _da’len_.” 

Aveline’s eyes kept sweeping the room, searching for the danger they all knew was there, but they couldn’t see. Then she looked directly at Marethari. “Please tell me you destroyed it.”

Marethari still did not look at anyone except Merrill. “The demon hasn’t been destroyed. Not yet. It’s still here. I couldn’t fight it in the Beyond while it was trapped, and I couldn’t banish it without making it stronger.”

“No,” Merrill said in a hushed, pleading voice. “Please tell me you didn’t. Please.”

“I made myself its prison. Kill me, and it dies, too. Then you will finally be safe. You will take my place as Keeper. You will bring the Mahariel off this mountain and to the forests where they once dwelled in peace.”

_They, not we. She isn’t the Keeper much, if at all. I think the demon is saying the words Marethari wanted to say, the words that made Marethari accept the deal._

**_Yes. It would seem so._ **

“You can’t ask—no!” Merrill held her stave in front of her with one hand, and the other hand open next to it, yet no magic ran through either of them. Faced with the nightmare of being asked to kill Marethari, the equivalent of her own mother, her magic went unused. “I won’t do this!”

Anders gritted his teeth at the injustice. No one should have to do such a thing. Not voluntarily, and not forced. Never. 

Marethari closed her eyes for a moment before regarding Merrill once more. “You always knew your blood magic had a price, _da’len_. I have chosen to pay it for you.”

Merrill’s jaw flexed as she tried to stop the quivering of her chin, but the shine in her eyes belied the tears she fought.

To Anders, what Marethari had done was unjust. It was Merrill’s choice when it came to paying for her blood magic, and she’d already made the choice. If the Keeper had believed in her, she would have let Merrill stay on her own path. 

He kept that thought to himself, because expressing it wouldn’t help.

Aveline had no such compunction to soften words. “Bullshit. Your choices are your own, and no one else’s.”

For once, Anders completely agreed with Aveline.

But Merrill carried none of the anger the others did. They were angry on her behalf, while Merrill despaired on her Keeper’s behalf. When Merrill tried to summon the anger she should’ve had, it fell flat once she spoke. “If there was a price to pay, I should have paid it. You had no right to interfere.”

For one moment, the person behind Marethari’s eyes was the Keeper again. “ _Dareth shiral_.” 

Then she was gone.

**_The demon has surfaced. I must strike it down._ **

Before Anders could object, Justice surged up and forward, taking over. The light of his righteousness, his need to protect those whom he now named friends, nearly blinded Anders with its brightness. The other mortals in the cave flinched from the Fade light as it filled the cavern.

Justice struck as the first changes appeared. He lifted the barely forming pride demon into the air, enshrouding it in a glowing blue light that held it fast. Then he raised his hand and the shards of the shattered statue were raised with it, lazily spinning as Justice spun his hand, until they surrounded the demon. Another movement from his hand had shards crackling with the same blue energy imprisoning the demon. Justice closed his fist, sharply bringing the shards in, nearly reassembling them as the statue had once been. Except there was a demon in the way, and the brutal rush of the shards coming together pulverized the demon’s physical form.

The shards fell away, pinging harmlessly onto the stone floor. The pride demon crumpled and faded, and then it was Marethari’s body dropping toward the ground. Justice caught her with the same magic that had taken the demon. Yet, the magic that had been so terrible before gentled, and Justice lowered her to the ground with his utmost care and respect. From the outer reaches of his own mind—a healer’s mind—Anders heard the shallowness in Marethari’s breathing. She wouldn’t be long for this world.

As Justice stepped back from Marethari’s prone form, the others stared at him.

Aveline held his gaze for a long, measuring look, and then nodded. “You put down a pride demon quickly. I knew Justice had gotten strong, but I didn’t know he was that strong.”

“You should’ve seen him take out the magister,” said Varric, yet even his lightheartedness sounded forced. “That pride demon was nothing.”

A flicker of doubt passed through Aveline’s eyes. Her fingers twitched for her sword, but she did not draw it.

It was enough a warning for Justice to take note. “The fight is not entirely over.”

Merrill had fallen to her knees next to Marethari so she could hear the weak whispers of her Keeper. 

“You’ve beaten it, _da’len_. You are so much stronger than I imagined. I’m proud of you, and the clan will be, too. Let’s leave this awful place. The clan should hear of your triumph.” They were the words Merrill would want to hear, were they true, but Marethari’s sentences lacked their usual soothing cadence. Anders and Justice could hear its absence, which meant Merrill would easily be able to tell.

It did nothing to lessen the agony of Merrill’s choice. Her hands fisted at her sides. “Keeper, I—”

“The demon will rise again if we do not kill its host,” said Justice.

_You could have let her finish her sentence._

**_The danger is too great to dally much longer._ **

Merrill called her magic, her hands glowing, but with a slight shake in her fingers. Then she took a thready breath and set herself, the quiver gone from her chin, and the shaking with it.

“I will do this for you,” said Justice, echoing Anders’ thoughts from earlier.

“No,” said Merrill. “She is my Keeper. I have to do it.”

Trapped in Justice’s control, Anders fought down the urge to kill the demon for Merrill just so he could take away the pain. He didn’t want to influence Justice any further, not while Justice believed it unfair for Merrill to have to do it herself.

Despite Merrill’s request, Justice stepped forward, having added Anders’ pleas to his own.

Aveline flung her arm in front of him, her shield pressing just hard enough on Justice’s chest to say she was serious, and brought him to a halt. “No,” Aveline said at Justice’s outraged look. “This is her choice. She’s already had one taken away. You have no right to take this one. None of us do.”

“ _Ir abelas_ , Keeper,” said Merrill. Then her magic surged. With it, a root burst from the ground under Marethari, piercing her heart. A dark miasma rose from her body and drifted through the cave.

Justice staggered backward and Anders tried to help him regain their footing, though he felt no less unbalanced, himself. Their individual, separate reservoirs of power mixed momentarily, and then almost felt like they surged. Just as quickly, they regained their equilibrium, and focused on Merrill.

As the root Merrill summoned retreated into the ground, the resolution that had filled her before vanished. Her hand hovered over Marethari, as if she wanted to touch her, maybe shake her, just to try to find a reason. “Why?” she asked. “I didn’t want this! I never wanted this!” The anger of betrayal blew itself out, and she was left with a plea. “Why couldn’t you believe in me?”

Merrill would never have an answer, not from the person who needed to give it.

Varric tried. “Love makes people do strange things, Daisy.”

“This never should have happened,” Merrill said, whether to them or to Marethari, they couldn’t know. Then Merrill bent closer, reached out, and gently placed her hand on Marethari’s head. “This never should have happened.” She closed her eyes, drawing will as she did a breath. Then she said a prayer over her Keeper. “O Falon’Din, _lethanavir_ —friend to the dead: guide her feet, calm her soul, lead her to her rest.”

When she stood up, she swayed, and then regained her footing. “I should go to the clan. They need to know.” She took one last look at Marethari. “They need to come… take care of her.”

The weight of the Keeper’s death pressed down on all of them, quieting their hike down the mountain. Merrill stopped briefly at Mythal’s altar and stared at the blue flame resting on it. If she prayed, she did not do so out loud. When she turned around to face the others again, her determination had returned, and her outward sadness banished.

As the group walked through the ancient elven burial ground, Justice became distracted by singing he heard from the lyrium. He’d always been easily distracted by the song he insisted he heard from it, but for some reason, he was extraordinarily so today. 

**_The mountain is built from it. Its soil is dusted with it. I cannot help but hear._ **

_Lyrium has a surprising application for killing broodmothers. Apply the right amount of flame to a smashed lyrium potion flask, and as Sandal would say, boom!_

**_A curious use for such a beautiful substance._ **

Power thrummed through Anders and Justice at the thought, but it wasn’t from either of them. Anders ignored it, not wanting to give into fear.

_Yes, well. We were desperate. It got the job done._

**_I pray you will not use lyrium in such a way again._ **

_No plans for it. I prefer its usual applications. Also, maybe you should let me take over my body now, if the lyrium is calling you with that much strength._

Justice returned control to Anders.

At the bottom of the trail, just beyond where the first of the clan’s aravels stood, Fenarel and the other hunters waited for them. Anders felt like he should have known, because it was always Fenarel. Always the leader, always the angriest and willing to say so. Anders had watched as both Líadan and Merrill dealt with him, Justice insisting the hunter should have been put in his place long ago. But that was Fenarel; they’d come to expect angry confrontations from him. What truly worried Anders was that the other hunters stood with him. Hunters Anders had seen often enough to easily recognize their faces and know them by name. Over time, even their glares had become familiar. 

Yet, now they ignored him. They ignored him and Varric and Aveline. Their glares rested solely on Merrill, just as Marethari’s gaze had only been on her former First.

“Where’s the Keeper?” Fenarel practically threw his arm in a gesture toward the mountain. “She went up this morning, saying she’d come down once she’d seen you. Where is she?”

Merrill deflated in the face of Fenarel’s accusation. “The Keeper, she…” She looked away, as if searching for a way to tell them that wouldn’t hurt. But there wasn’t one to be had. Her voice cracked when she had to say it. “She’s dead.”

“The Keeper loved you, you know,” said Fenarel, his eyes not showing any of the pain Anders had expected.

Alarm began to run through him, and for some reason, he was glad he’d kept his stave out to use while hiking down Sundermount.

Fenarel’s glare darkened. “She loved you more than the clan, and you turned on her.”

“I didn’t! I’d never—I’m sorry! I never wanted this. If I could have saved her… if I could have died instead, I would have.” 

**_Their judgment upon her is wrong. This must be righted._ **

Before Anders could caution Justice to tread lightly, Justice shoved him back and spoke his mind. “Your Keeper turned into an abomination. There was no choice except to kill the demon within her.”

“There would be no demon,” Fenarel practically snarled at Merrill, “if not for this little flat-eared bitch.”

_Elves don’t believe in demons. To them, they’re all spirits. I don’t understand._

The rest of the clan crowded behind the hunters. From there, they followed Fenarel’s lead and shouted their own invectives, each one running straight into another, a barrage of arrows that landed every mark.

“You’ve left us with no Keeper!”

“Everything you touch turns to ash!”

“Traitor! May the Dread Wolf hunt you for the rest of your days!”

“You’ve destroyed our clan!”

“You brought this curse on us!”

“Look what you’ve done!”

“We’ve suffered enough because of you,” Fenarel said as he drew his sword. Behind him, around him, the rest of the clan took up their own weapons. “We’ll not let you poison anything else.”

Then real arrows were nocked, real bows were drawn, and one was let go, the arrow shot directly at Merrill. Only Aveline’s quick reflexes kept Merrill from taking the arrow in her chest. It slammed into Aveline’s shield and stayed there, causing Aveline to curse.

Anders didn’t hear it. The clan’s actions summoned Vengeance, and he leapt out to defend her. To defend all of them. No one hurt his friends. No one, not even family. As Justice had come to understand this, so had Vengeance. And he tore the clan members apart.

Anders yelled, but he could do nothing to stop Vengeance. Even Justice shouted along with him for Vengeance to staunch the flow of blood. He also went unheeded. Their pleas joined with others, from the non-hunters in the clan, from Aveline and Varric and a desperately horrified Merrill.

Vengeance refused to cede to them as he violently and thoroughly eliminated all he perceived a threat.

It took the combined efforts and wills of both Anders and Justice to overcome Vengeance, and only just barely did they wrench control from him. But by the time Anders took over, it was too late. While the others in their small party done their best to incapacitate instead of kill when they could, Vengeance had sought blood for blood, and blood he’d had.

There was no one of the clan left alive, not even the children.

Anders had known these people. They were family to more than one friend of his, and now they were dead, the majority by his hands. His choices. His magic.

His throat hurt from Vengeance’s shouting, leaving his voice raspy. “I’m sorry,” he said. 

Except sorry really didn’t cover mass murder.

Maybe magic was a curse. Maybe merging with Justice had been a bad idea.

Merrill stood in the middle of what had once been a Dalish camp. Her clan’s camp. “They’re all gone. Gone, forever. All this time, I thought I could help them, save them.”

Varric stood behind Merrill, looking as hopeless as the rest of them felt. There wasn’t much anyone could say to someone who’d lost their entire clan. “They weren’t listening to reason,” he said. “Maker, they weren’t listening at all.”

“Everything I did, I did for them, and they chose to destroy themselves in order to escape my help.”

The responsibility for their deaths rested with him, Anders believed. No, he knew. “There was nothing you could have done, Merrill. Not with them, and not with… not with Vengeance.”

Her breath hitched, the first readable sign of tears she’d shown since the cave. “I have to bury them all. They deserve their rites.” Her voice trembled, a mage who had not trembled in the face of a pride demon, of all the dangers they’d faced with her, trembled. For the first time since Anders had known her, he saw she was truly frightened.

“You’re afraid,” Anders said when she didn’t move. “What makes you afraid?”

Her reply was as meek as a child frightened by a nightmare. “That there will be no one left to do the same for me.”

The healer in him wanted to heal that pain. To take it from her so she wouldn’t suffer more than she had. But, he didn’t know how, and he suspected no one did. “I would like to help,” he said after a moment. “I have to—I have to do something.” To atone. To make up for it, anything, something. But nothing could replace the lives Vengeance had taken, the bonds to kin and clan that Vengeance had ripped from Anders’ friends.

Merrill looked up at him and studied deeply within his eyes. It was a measuring look Anders had encountered from Keepers, and now Merrill had found her own ability to do so. She directed it at him, into him, almost to his soul. Then she said, “Yes, you can help.”

He asked how, as did Aveline and Varric. Merrill directed them to find cedar branches and sticks of oak to use as staves, and then asked Justice to come forth to dig the graves. With Justice’s power, the expansive ditch was dug in hours rather than the days it would have taken mortals. Next came moving the bodies, Merrill helping with roots she could summon, and Justice with his ability to easily lift things, no matter what the weight. After Merrill gently placed a cedar branch in the arms of each body, followed by a stick of oak and a handful of soil, Justice pushed a wave of dirt over the open grave. A fist of solid air from Justice tamped down the soil over it. They did this, over and over, until the meadow resembled a farmer’s newly-sown field.

Then Justice withdrew into his own regret, giving control back to Anders.

At first, Anders was afraid there wouldn’t be enough saplings. Then he discovered a magical ability of Merrill’s that he’d never known—she _did_ still possess an affinity for creation. She found the tiniest of shoots, the smallest of seeds, one or the other planted over each member of her clan. Then she grew them. Grew them enough to stand against wind and rain, to stand as memorials to her family, the bare field having become a tiny forest.

If Merrill, a former blood mage, could still perform creation magic, there was hope for her. Perhaps, Anders thought, there was more hope for her than there was for him.

“We… we shouldn’t return, after we leave,” Merrill said. “Spirits will possess the trees when they become tall enough. The sylvans will attack anyone who dares trespass on their graves.”

Pieces and parts of the Mahariel clan’s existence remained scattered throughout their camp. Bows, blankets, carvings, clothes that had been hung to dry, baskets, food. A drum that Varric tripped over. Feathers from arrow fletchings blew into Aveline’s face. Merrill walked over to Master Ilen’s aravel, where the craftsman had stood that very morning, and now he was gone, his wares strewn on the ground. Anders came across a small carved wooden halla and pocketed it, thinking of Ava and the halla Líadan had said she’d taken a liking to. Merrill came out of Ilen’s aravel carrying two statues and her eyes brimming with tears. 

“Here’s what I needed,” she said, sounding far stronger than she looked. Then she set the statues down and glanced over at another aravel. “There’s one more thing I need help with. In that aravel over there are the statues of the Creators the Dalish typically set around their camps. For some reason, my clan never did when they got here. I suppose we’ll never know why, but… I’d like to put them around the grove where their saplings are, if that’s all right?”

“It’s all right,” said Aveline.

Together, they set up the statues. Only in death had the Mahariel brought out the Creators to watch over them.

In Kirkwall, none of them wanted to leave Merrill alone. “I’ll stay with Daisy,” said Varric. “I live the closest, anyway. If I can, I’ll get her to the Hanged Man. If not, I’ll make sure the hahren here knows she’ll need someone to look in on her. It’s hard, losing family.” And Varric would know, having lost his brother earlier that year.

Anders left for Darktown, and was surprised to find that Aveline remained at his side. His puzzlement must have shown, because she said, “The templars have grown a lot bolder as of late. Some would even say ballsy. I know you’ll be fine in Darktown, but I’m unsure of the same for Lowtown.”

“I’m a Grey Warden. They aren’t just going to snatch me off the street.”

She said nothing for a moment, allowing their steady footsteps to speak. Then she said, “The day will come when the templars of the Gallows will ignore the fact that you’re a Warden. They’ll see mage and nothing else, and will drag you in.”

He frowned, fighting Justice’s surge within him. “That would be a bloody day.”

“Yes, it would. I would like to avoid it, like I wish we could have with Merrill’s clan today. But I’m not sure how it could have been. It was almost like they were all possessed.”

“Maybe they were. The Keeper had smashed the statue. The demons held inside would have escaped en masse, not just the one pride demon. They could’ve found hosts in the clan. If a demon is already on this side of the Veil, any host, even if not a mage, is better than none. Or perhaps they’d even escaped long before today, and that was the reason the clan was becoming so strange.”

“Tell the other Wardens what happened. Merrill might not be able to for a long while yet, and Líadan should know sooner. They were her family, too.”

“I will. She’ll blame me. With both know it. Maker, _I_ blame me. It’ll take a little time for me to accept what happened… what I allowed to happen. It’s not a good feeling, you know. It’s like you’re trapped in your own body, seeing out your eyes, while someone else moves you like a puppet. And you’re trying to scream, to move a single muscle, but there’s no escape. Until you look down at the blood on your hands—”

“Enough.” Aveline gave him a hard look until she was convinced he’d stopped. “You’re here now. You came back when the threat was over. That’s what matters.”

“Are you going to kill me? Since Marian isn’t here to do it.”

She shook her head, a single, sharp movement done with such finality that Anders’ objections went silent. “No. You were provoked. Had Justice not appeared, they would have killed us all. We couldn’t have taken on an entire Dalish clan and lived.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so.” They had stopped outside the entrance to Darktown. “I’ll have to leave you here, Anders. I need to file a report about the clan being gone. Watch yourself.” Then she strode off, headed for the stairs leading to Hightown.

Unsure what Aveline’s warning meant, Anders descended to his clinic, wanting the safety of its familiarity. When he got there, he washed up again, and then stared vaguely at the shelves of potions and poultices and other implements a healer would use. The last trait he’d clung to had been his ability as a healer, his role of a healer. He’d taken solace in the fact that his hands could fix people, cure people, could repair what had been torn or sickened, bruised or broken. The hands that had once helped bring life onto Thedas, or kept the flame of a life alive on Thedas, had extinguished so many. They weren’t his hands, not anymore. 

No healer would do what he had done that day.


	15. Chapter 15

“Kordilius Drakon, king of the city-state of Orlais, was a man of uncommon ambition. In the year -15 Ancient, the young king began construction of a great temple dedicated to the Maker, and declared that by its completion he would not only have united the warring city-states of the south, he would have brought Andrastian belief to the world.

In -3 Ancient, the temple was completed. There, in its heart, Drakon knelt before the eternal flame of Andraste and was crowned ruler of the Empire of Orlais. His first act as Emperor: To declare the Chantry as the established Andrastian religion of the Empire.

It took three years and several hundred votes before Olessa of Montsimmard was elected to lead the new Chantry. Upon her coronation as Divine, she took the name Justinia, in honor of the disciple who recorded Andraste’s songs. In that moment, the ancient era ended and the Divine Age began.”

—from _Ferelden: Folklore and History_ , by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar

**Malcolm**

“Your names rhyme,” Malcolm said to the other two humans in his group as their ship approached a wharf in the harbor of Val Royeaux. “Do you know how frustrating that is?”

“The insipid Warden should forego using official names, as I do. I find it to be much easier,” said Shale.

“If you start calling me Flora, I will cast an itching hex on your trousers,” said Finn.

Malcolm glanced over at him. “I could just use a cleanse on them. You’ll have to figure out some other sort of retaliation, Flora.”

Finn glared, but his glare carried with it a decent amount of exasperation. “Removing a hex from clothing isn’t as easy as washing it.”

“Wasn’t talking about washing.”

“Then what were you talking about? Because the cleanse that’d remove the hex is one only templars can do.”

“You don’t say.”

“The insipid Warden is toying with the finicky mage,” said Shale. “I am rather enjoying the show.”

Wynne sighed.

“You’re a templar?” Finn tightly gripped the railing in front of him, looking like he was about to heave himself over and into the water. “Because if you are, I think it’s something that should have come up sooner.”

“No worries, I’m not an actual templar. I just have some of the same abilities. Since there are a pretty good number of former templars in the Wardens, other Wardens who are capable learn what they can from them.”

“Why? Do you have to control Warden mages?”

“No, not usually.” Malcolm paused to think. “I don’t know of any incident where anyone had to. Anyway, not for controlling fellow Wardens. They’re for dealing with darkspawn mages.”

“Oh, well. That makes sense.” Finn’s hands relaxed their hold on the railing. “Could you please not call me Flora?”

“He is asking nicely,” Wynne said.

Malcolm heard the unspoken warning, however. And it wasn’t like Wynne needed to use her magic to make life unpleasant. “All right, fine.”

“It could still call it the finicky mage,” said Shale.

“They really don’t need the encouragement,” Wynne told her. Before she could go on with what most likely would be a lecture—Malcolm and Finn had heard a lot of them over the couple days aboard ship—the crew had put down the gangplank and were shouting for passengers to disembark.

“Time to go!” Malcolm said before Wynne could start in. He’d never thought he’d be this excited to go into Val Royeaux, but Wynne could do that to a person. Any person.

The gangplank deposited them on the long wharf, bounded by warehouses and teeming with longshoremen loading and unloading docked ships. The brisk business served to keep them alert as they hustled toward the main street leading out of the harbor, which, Wynne informed them, would bring them right into the middle of the market. Malcolm had been expecting the crowd to thin out a little once they were out of the docks, but his assumption proved to be incredibly wrong. If it wasn’t merchants hawking wares from stalls, potential customers gathered around those stalls, or the press of other market-goers, entertainers stole bubbles of free space for their varied performances. Malcolm could see the two towers of the Grand Cathedral just above the roofs of the buildings around them, but he didn’t dare look at them for long. Andraste knew how many pickpockets were about, and they didn’t have a reformed one of their own to spy them. Sigrun was remarkably good at catching pickpockets in the act—and was also an incredibly talented pickpocket in her own right. 

Even Shale’s hulking and lumbering appearance barely afforded them more space in the press of Orlesians. If they were intimidated or impressed at all, Malcolm couldn’t tell with all the masks. Sometimes, he was able to catch a quick downturn of a mouth because they were half-masks, but without the movement around the eyes, it was hard to tell. Maker, he hated masks.

Being a Warden at least exempted him from the expectation of mask-wearing. The same went for the mages, as Wynne had explained when he’d asked. Mages could wear them, but it usually wasn’t safe to do so. They were distrusted enough, and the mask was often too risky an element to add. Chantry priests, sisters, and brothers did not wear masks, nor did the templars. Guards also went unmasked, as did peasants. Most servants wore them, unless they were literally never seen. Shale, of course, needed nothing.

“They like to hide, do they not?” Shale said, more an observation than question, probably to get some sort of rise out of the Orlesians who were not getting out of her way. “Why the hiding?”

“I don’t know,” said Malcolm. “Feel free to ask them.”

“No. I would rather not interact.”

“Probably for the best.” He doubted Shale would be able to get through a conversation with one of the many people here before she squished them.

He considered encouraging her.

The crowds thinned once they exited the marketplace, returning to normal levels expected for foot traffic on city streets. At least they hadn’t had to deal with the horses while going through the marketplace—it would’ve been a nightmare. So they’d paid some of the ship’s crew to bring them to the White Spire’s stables. Without having to lead the horses or needing constant vigilance to make sure he wasn’t robbed, Malcolm was able to take a few looks over at the Grand Cathedral. It was certainly grand, and was also a lot bigger than he’d pictured. He’d known it was, but until he saw it, he hadn’t really comprehended the actual scale.

They passed a huge iron gate guarded by quite a few members of the Val Royeaux City Guard, and it took Malcolm a few moments to realize it was the Elven Alienage. The gates were easily four times the size of the gates that had once been part of Denerim’s Alienage. “That’s the Alienage, then?” he asked Wynne.

She nodded. “Ten thousand elves live there, I’m told, in a space no bigger than the Denerim Market.”

His eyes widened. He’d thought the Alienage would be as big as Denerim itself, given the size of Val Royeaux. Instead, Denerim’s elves had far more space available to them, especially after the walls had come down to turn the Alienage into the Elven Quarter. 

His mother had been born and lived part of her life in a place like this.

He wasn’t sure if it had been here in Val Royeaux, or the Alienage in Montsimmard, since that was the Circle she’d been sent to. But he didn’t imagine the Montsimmard elves fared any better than those in Val Royeaux. Wynne might have known, but he couldn’t ask with Finn right there—or being in the middle of Val Royeaux, to boot—not with most people unaware that his mother was an elf. Either way, it was hard for him to take in, which meant he tried to understand by working through the details out loud.

“My mother was born in Orlais, I heard,” he said. “But she ended up at the Circle in Montsimmard instead of the White Spire.”

Sheltered as he was, Finn was still sharp. “Your mother was a mage? Really?”

Malcolm barely kept from rolling his eyes. “Do you choose to disbelieve everything I say or is it just something that happens?”

“If the insipid Warden were not so glib, perhaps it would be taken seriously.”

“I doubt it.”

“Sadly, I believe it is right.”

Then Malcolm’s eyes caught on the glittering single tower of the White Spire, and suddenly felt like they hadn’t spent long enough wandering the market. “Are we really going straight to the Circle?”

“Of course we are,” said Wynne. “We don’t have the time to play tourist.”

She was really getting good at crushing his hopes. “Do I have to go in?”

“Do you wish to camp outside the city with Shale?”

“It may keep me company, if it wishes. I will not crush it in its sleep.”

He grinned over at the golem. “And here I thought you wouldn’t want to cuddle!”

Shale’s stony eyebrows rose. “I will not allow it to cuddle.”

“No? That’s too bad.” He turned to Wynne again. “I suppose I’ll be going with you to the White Spire.”

“I will meet it at the designated place outside Velun,” Shale said to Wynne.

“How will we find you?” asked Finn.

“Just follow the trail of dead birds,” said Malcolm. 

Finn made a gagging sound.

He rolled his eyes. “It isn’t like I was descriptive about it. And if we run into darkspawn, it’s going to look and smell a lot worse than dead birds.”

“I prefer the darkspawn,” said Shale. Then she trotted off, heedless of the Orlesians who were finally forced to scatter out of her way, like a flock of pigeons. Malcolm figured Shale would have appreciated that comparison.

“Come along,” Wynne said over her shoulder to the remaining two.

At first, Malcolm thought he’d have some solidarity with Finn because Wynne kept treating them like children. It wasn’t like they didn’t deserve some of the treatment, considering, but still. But they’d only gone a few steps before Finn started in on a lecture about the White Spire.

“Kordillus Drakon built the White Spire, you know,” Finn said to Malcolm. Malcolm knew it was directed at him because Finn looked right at him when he said it, and did not cast even so much as a glance toward Wynne. “It was the fortress he ruled from until he built another palace.”

“Lovely.” The Circle did seem to re-appropriate older structures quite often. The Avvar fortress of Kinloch Hold for Ferelden’s Circle, then the Tevinter Gallows in Kirkwall—which he still believed a phenomenally stupid decision, but what did he know, not being a mage—and now Drakon’s old fortress here in Val Royeaux. He actually hadn’t heard of a single time the Circle had been permitted to construct its own building. He suspected that if they had, they wouldn’t have so many problems with a thinning Veil. It was like they were purposely trying to drive the mages to take in demons. Sadly, part of him believed that maybe they were.

Meanwhile, Finn hadn’t stopped. “Do you think they’ll let us explore? Probably you more than me, but we’ll have to try. The lowest levels used to be torture chambers and dungeons. Theoretically, they’ve been abandoned and filled by waters from the sewers, but you never know. Then there’s archives! Old archives, recent archives, lots of written records from both the Circle and the Chantry, from what I’ve read.”

“Good for you. Maybe you’ll be able to get some reading in during our visit.”

Finn sighed. “You don’t have to be so discouraging about it.”

“I didn’t ask for a history lesson.”

“I thought you’d like to know about the place where we’ll be staying! You’re welcome.”

“I’d assumed we wouldn’t be staying long enough for me to care.”

“We’ll be there for a few days, I believe,” Wynne said without turning around. “It will take a little time to arrange things for the new spirit healer.”

Days. Malcolm scowled at Wynne’s back, and then scowled at a couple Orlesians passing by, just for good measure. “You haven’t said much about this new healer. And by ‘not much,’ I mean you haven’t said anything at all.”

“No, I haven’t.”

_Andraste’s feathered pantaloons_ , but Wynne could be trying. He reined his frustration in by reminding himself that she was distracting him, even with her irritation. Then he said to Finn, “All right, go on with your lesson.”

“Oh. Well.” Finn’s shoulders drooped. “That was really it, actually. The main entrance used to be the throne room, and above that are the mages and the library, and then the templars.”

“You aren’t excited about the library?”

“I am. I just didn’t want to encourage you to go there. You’ll only deface more books.”

“Oh, come on. I didn’t deface any books.”

“That have been found.”

Malcolm wondered what Wynne would do to him if he strangled Finn. Unwilling to test her quite that much, he ignored Finn the rest of the way to the White Spire.

Instead of being grudgingly allowed in, they were practically welcomed into the White Spire. Malcolm supposed it was because templars probably didn’t have a lot of experience with mages visiting voluntarily, so it made sense for them not to be ungrateful when some did. Once inside the vestibule—though the hall was so long it could hardly be called that—they were funneled toward the end of the room, where a templar stood watch next to an ornate wooden lectern.

The templar summoned them up to the top of the dais, and Wynne introduced herself before the young man could even ask.

Malcolm did his best not to look bored as they talked, searching the rather large room to see what remaining traits he could find from when it’d been a throne room. The sheer size of it was one, as was the dais. The throne had probably been somewhere near where the lectern now stood. Long benches of dark, richly polished wood lined each side of the hall, presumably for visitors to sit as they waited for permission to enter, though it didn’t seem like they’d have to wait for very long. As soon as Wynne had signed their names into the ledger on the lectern, the templar sent a messenger to summon the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter.

While Finn availed himself of a seat, Malcolm elected to stand. His choice was justified when the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter entered the hall shortly after. Finn grumbled under his breath and then stood as Knight-Commander Eron and First Enchanter Edmonde introduced themselves. 

After Wynne introduced Finn, she extended a hand toward Malcolm. “And this is Warden-Lieutenant Malcolm. He is our Grey Warden guide for our journey. ”

He politely greeted Eron and Edmonde, and then quirked an eyebrow at Wynne. 

“Warden-Lieutenant is the Orlesian equivalent of Senior Warden,” she said in answer to his unspoken question.

“Of course it is.”

“We haven’t had a Grey Warden visit for quite some time,” said Edmonde. “I daresay the younger apprentices might be somewhat enamored, so take my warning for what you will.” His light eyes held a spark of humor, but the lines around them and dark smudges below revealed how tired he was. He seemed as burdened as Irving, and Malcolm wondered if it was something that just happened to First Enchanters. From what he’d seen in Circles, he wouldn’t be surprised if they literally sagged under the weight of the office. Maker, even his gold-trimmed black robes looked exhausted and weary.

“If you would be accommodating,” said Knight-Commander Eron, “I would invite you to spar with some of my templars during their training.”

Malcolm smiled again. “I would appreciate it, Knight-Commander. I’d like to keep my martial skills honed, and Wynne tells me we’ll be here for a few days at least.” He truly did try his best not to sound bitter, and he mostly pulled it off.

“I’ll send one of my Knight-Corporals around to show you where our training areas are.” Eron nodded at Edmonde and the rest. “If you will excuse me, I must return to my duties. Welcome to the White Spire.”

Edmonde indicated for them to follow, and up the staircases they went. Malcolm wished the Circles would stop establishing themselves in sodding towers. Nothing wrong with a good, rectangular fortress without fifty different levels. In an effort to ignore his complaining knees, Malcolm returned to studying his surroundings. Where Kinloch Hold could be described as austere, the White Spire took the opposite in its opulence. Glowstones in sconces kept the corridors brightly lit, paintings and tapestries lending color to the walls, and even the stone tiles underfoot were marble instead of the usual granite. Prettily dressed, yet still a prison all the same. As they walked, Edmonde pointed out various features. Malcolm took special note of the dining hall, while Finn perked up at the mention of the library. The floors above and below the library, for the library took up an entire floor all on its own, held the classrooms and the dizzying array of spaces dedicated to practicing magic. 

The sheer number of apprentices milling about compared to Kinloch Hold astounded Malcolm. Even before the Blight and Uldred’s awful takeover of the Tower, he didn’t think there had been anywhere near as many mages living there. While in Kinloch Hold they’d only had one rambunctious apprentice run into them, here they had several. Each one got a scolding from both Edmonde and Wynne, yet none of them seemed terribly affected by them.

Malcolm garnered more than a few curious looks, and the youngest of the apprentices, hardly older than his own daughter, outright stared. 

“It’s the griffons on your uniform,” said Wynne. 

“It’s not a uniform. It’s armor that’s issued. That every other Warden wears—fine, it’s a uniform. With griffons on it, like everyone dreamed of having as a child.”

“So you see why they look at you so.”

“Well, some of them stopped when they heard me speak. It goes from ‘Oooo, a Grey Warden!’ to ‘Ugh, Fereldan’ right quick.”

“Many will find you a curiosity still,” said Edmonde. “I daresay most of the children have never met a Fereldan who wasn’t a mage, much less a Grey Warden of any kind. I hope you like telling stories, because you’ll be plied for them while you’re here.”

“What if I don’t like telling stories?”

“Then you will learn,” said Wynne.

Malcolm was fairly certain that stepping foot into a Circle automatically made Wynne twice as pedantic. Since that sort of thing shouldn’t be encouraged, he didn’t acknowledge her statement. “I know I haven’t visited many Circles, but you seem to have an awful lot of apprentices here, First Enchanter.”

“We have more here than we had anticipated,” said Edmonde. “The number of children brought in has increased every year. Our Tranquil archivists have said that the increase is without historical precedent.”

“The same is happening at Kinloch Hold,” said Finn. “It’s made the templars fidgety.”

“And ours are anxious.” Edmonde sighed. “But there is nothing we can do except teach. No one but the Maker knows why we’re suddenly seeing a surge in magic users.”

Anxious templars, Malcolm had learned, were not the sort of templars you wanted around. He really hoped that they’d be here less than a few days.

The accommodations were nice, there was that. Each of them were afforded their own room, though Wynne’s was on a different level than Malcolm’s or Finn’s were. Probably better appointed, Malcolm figured, given her rank within the Circle. The food was fantastic, the bed comfortable, and the view of Val Royeaux from his tall, narrow window nothing short of amazing. Yet, amazing views did nothing for being left to cool his heels in a Circle while Wynne did Maker knew what.

While Finn was happy enough to spend his entire day either in the library or the archive, Malcolm wasn’t as content with those options. However, they weren’t afforded many other choices, because Wynne had practically disappeared, and neither of them knew where she’d gone.

The first morning, over breakfast, when it became apparent that Wynne wouldn’t be joining them, Finn asked about it. “What do you suppose she’s doing?”

Malcolm, grumpy at having been unceremoniously abandoned—and it wasn’t like he hadn’t lost friends and family _already_ —wasn’t terribly forthcoming with useful speculation. “How should I know? Wynne-things. I have no idea what those things are, other than those are things she does. If you want anything more, you’ll have to ask her directly. Good luck with that.”

Finn sniffed at being rebuffed, and left him alone for the rest of the day.

Malcolm knew he should’ve been a little nicer, but something about having to stay there in the Spire left him ill at ease. Even the sparring he did with the templars didn’t provide a way to shake the feeling, not with their anxiousness influencing the ways they sparred. It made for bad bouts all around, because Malcolm knew he shouldn’t be trouncing every templar he faced, because the former-templar Wardens in Ferelden were almost all incredibly good fighters. Better than him, usually. Maybe Hildur had stolen the best of them, but Malcolm assumed it had to be whatever made them nervous. And nervous templars made him restive and focused at the same time, which meant while he dealt out an unusually high number of bruises, his own were given time to fully heal.

But the disquiet remained, especially in his sleep.

_Someone was chasing him. A shadow, something he couldn’t identify, but he knew it was_ wrong _somehow. And if it caught him, whatever happened would be horrible. But he was chasing someone, too. Though he couldn’t name who or what or anything but the urgency he had to find them. It was dark all around him, the smell like the Deep Roads, only stale, and yet he ran as fast as he could, heedless of the dangers waiting ahead in the dark. Then a rumble and a flare of light pierced the darkness and he stumbled and fell. The ground shook from the explosion, and then flames surrounded him. Beyond the flames, he thought he heard cries. Then he recognized the cries for what they were—his children were calling for him, calling for his help. They needed him and he had to find them and he plunged through the fire. The heat was so intense that it left him strangely cold. He didn’t care. He had to get to them, and now their voices were from beyond the walls of rock, walls that had no exits, and he scraped at them as the flames consumed everything in the room. He scratched and clawed until his fingers bled, and he scratched some more, even as the fire licked trails of ash into his skin. He could hear them so clearly—and their plaintive cries grew louder and more frightened and he wondered where Líadan was, why she hadn’t rescued them yet, and maybe they weren’t the ones who needed rescuing. Maybe it was her and she was too hurt to make any sound at all, and the children’s shouting became weakened and hoarse. He fell as the flames enveloped him, the heat so hot it was like falling through ice into a winter lake, and in the middle of it, between the waning cries of his children, the silence from his wife, and the crackling of the fire, there was the throaty call of a crow._

He woke to darkness, and nothing more aside from a cold sweat and a racing heart. 

The first two nights he’d had the nightmares, he’d remained in his room afterward, not wanting to surprise or upset wary templars. The griffon heraldry on his brigandine wouldn’t be as obvious in the dim lighting the Spire kept in the hallways at night, and so he had stayed in. While he hadn’t been expressly told that there was a curfew for him, the treads of templar sentries walking past his door every half-hour to an hour implied that wandering about was discouraged. Now, he didn’t care what the consequences would be as long as it got him out of the room and decidedly _not_ thinking about his dreams.

This time, he dispensed with obeying the unwritten rule and tugged on trousers and boots, followed by a linen undershirt and his brigandine. Then after a moment of thought, which primarily consisted of _Orlais_ and _Circle of the Magi_ and _templars_ , he made sure his dagger was at his belt. He left his sword behind, but not without casting a wistful look at it. A dagger was a precaution; carrying his sword around with him in the middle of the night invited the sort of trouble he wanted to avoid in the first place.

He slipped out of the room, checked for templars, and then started down the hall. While he didn’t have a destination in mind, he did know it was away from his room. The commons would do, he supposed. He could gape at the statues and walk around and if he still hadn’t calmed down, then he’d find more to explore. Except he hadn’t thought ahead enough to realize that the statues that formed the bases of the supporting pillars of the tiny commons would be, frankly, terrifying in the dim light.

Maybe staying in his room would’ve been a better idea, after all.

As he swung around a pillar to head back to the central staircase, Malcolm had the misfortune of walking right into a templar. He yelped and so did the templar, and they both reeled as they fought to keep their footing. He wasn’t a small man, and she was in full heavy armor, and they’d both been walking at a fairly high rate of speed, so the collision hadn’t been mild. The templar’s helm had been in her hand, and on impact, it’d gone flying, clanging against the stone floor until she chased it down. When she stood to confront Malcolm, he noticed her armor was covered in soot and an alarming number of scorch marks. 

“Someone set you on fire?” he asked, doing his best to sound as lighthearted as he could. “That’s happened to me more than a few times. My condolences.”

“What are you doing—” Her flash of irritation disappeared as her eyes cut to the griffon sigil on his brigandine. Then she sighed and tried to shove errant strands of her black hair back into its messy bun. “Warden, this isn’t a good time for you to be out of your room.”

Oh, irritation to exasperation. He was well familiar with that shift. “There wasn’t anyone nearby, so it seemed like a good time to me.”

“There’s been an incident.” The shadows cast from the glowstones darkened ones already under the templar’s eyes, making her appear wearier than Edmonde. No, not like Edmonde. She reminded Malcolm of Cullen. Their eyes wanted to be bright, but had faded as they stubbornly clung to their idealism as reality wore it down. “It would be best if my templars weren’t caught by surprise by a Warden skulking about in the corridors.”

Malcolm straightened, feigning indignity. “I don’t skulk, Ser—”

“Knight-Captain Evangeline.”

He nodded, though he found the similar rank to Cullen interesting. “Right. Well, Knight-Captain, I don’t skulk, because I can’t skulk. I walk. Sometimes quietly, most times not. Usually not. I do apologize for surprising you. Generally, it’s in one’s best interests not to catch templars or mages by surprise. Leads to things like being set on fire or stabbed. Sometimes both.”

She sighed again. 

_Definitely_ like Cullen with that sort of resignation in her sigh. These people really needed senses of humor if they wanted to survive and not become endlessly dull.

“Warden—”

“Warden-Lieutenant Malcolm.” Since they were using ranks, it seemed.

Evangeline gave him a slightly cross look and then rubbed her forehead. “Warden-Lieutenant, if you could please cooperate and return to your room, it would be much appreciated.”

He glanced down the hallway he’d come from, as if he were considering going back. “I suppose I could cooperate.” Then he returned to Evangeline. “So, what was the incident?”

“I’m sure there will be gossip about it tomorrow, during the day, from every mage and templar in this tower. You can find out then.”

“But the anticipation will keep me up for the rest of the night! I’ll keep wondering and wondering and I’ll never get to sleep. Wardens need their beauty rest, you know.”

“I’m certain you’ll find a way around it.” She’d taken a couple steps toward his room, corralling him as she did.

Maker’s blood, she was _herding_ him and he hadn’t even picked up on it. He was clearly outclassed. “Fine, fine. Don’t tell me.”

She didn’t. She escorted him all the way to his room and remained outside after she’d bustled him in and closed the door. While he hadn’t done much exploring, the minor altercation with the Knight-Captain certainly got his mind off the nightmare he’d had. Unlike what he’d told her, he was able to fall asleep quite easily.

Over their morning meal, Finn shared what he’d heard from other mages. “So there was an incident last night.”

“I know.” Malcolm happily started in on his food, having decided to take advantage of it while he could. Orlesians were _Orlesians_ , but they were damn good when it came to cuisine.

“How would you know?”

“I don’t know what happened, exactly. I just know that something happened. Feel free to tell me.”

“There was an attack on the Divine at a ball last night.”

Malcolm nearly dropped his knife. “Really?” Because there was a good chance Finn was having him on, because Malcolm had had Finn on enough times where he deserved to have it directed at him for once.

“Really. Rumor has it that it was a blood mage who attacked Her Perfection, but the templars aren’t confirming. They aren’t denying, either, so there’s that.”

“No wonder the Knight-Captain was so agitated last night.”

Finn did drop his knife. Luckily, it wasn’t very far above his plate, so the noise wasn’t excessive. “What were—why would you have seen her last night?”

Malcolm studied him for a moment. “I’m not sure what direction your thoughts have taken for you to look so horrified.” When Finn opened his mouth, Malcolm waved him off. “No, no. Seriously, don’t tell me. Whatever it is you think it was, it wasn’t. I couldn’t sleep, so I tried to go exploring. I literally walked into her as soon as I got to the commons. The end.” While the Knight-Captain was certainly a nice-looking woman—brusque personality aside—he had a wife. A wife whom he loved and very much wanted to see again, whenever that would be. And probably then do those things Finn was likely imagining.

“For a Warden, you have really boring stories.”

“The other Wardens stole all the good ones.” Oghren, mostly, but he didn’t mention him out loud. While Malcolm wasn’t a rare name for a human to have, Oghren was a lot more recognizable when it came to well-known Wardens.

“Your good ones lately are about beating up templars. Are you going to do that again today?”

“No.” When Finn raised an eyebrow, Malcolm felt compelled to explain further. “They were keen on it for a couple days, but now they want a break. Something about letting bruises heal and muscles regain their strength. Excuses, but they can’t all be chevaliers, is what they told me. Either way, I’ve got hours of incredible boredom ahead of me.”

“There’s always the library,” said Finn.

“I like reading, but not as much as you do. I don’t think anyone likes it as much as you do.” He slumped in his chair. “Maker, I should’ve gone with Shale.” It meant he’d be outside. Outside sounded good.

“The library has books about golems. And, if you listen closely, rumors. Lots of them.”

“All right, fine. Might as well be there as anywhere.” Malcolm sighed. It was a better option than moping, even though libraries were places that largely frowned on those who were restless or disinclined to quiet. He decided to keep on the subject of golems, partly for the levity, and partly because Shale wasn’t there to get cranky about it. “My brother played with little golem figurines.”

“Really?” Finn narrowed his eyes at Malcolm. “The— _he_ played with golems as a boy?”

“No, he played with golem figurines last time I saw him, less than a month ago. He won’t admit to it, of course, but he still has them.”

“You’re having me on.” Finn had largely wised up to Malcolm’s declarations, and his growing skepticism had required Malcolm to think up more clever ones. This time it was made easy because it was the plain and simple truth—the King of Ferelden played with golem dolls, sometimes without his sons around as an excuse.

“You can ask him yourself. Well, if you ever have a chance to talk to him, I suppose. Or if we ever see Wynne again, you can ask her.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Do you happen to know where any are? I’m that bored. Maybe I can stage an epic battle with the younger apprentices.” That honestly did sound like fun. While the rest of the Orlesian mages had pretty much left him alone, the youngest apprentices cornered him whenever they were allowed and pressed him for stories. While he lacked the visceral nature required for Oghren’s storytelling, and was a far cry from the raconteur who was Varric, he told them decently enough for the kids to keep asking for more. A couple of the enchanters had apologized for the younger mages bothering him, but he didn’t mind. It helped a little bit with missing his own children.

“They do seem to like you,” said Finn.

“It’s the griffons. Also because I’m a Warden and I’m Fereldan who isn’t from the Circle. Mostly the Warden. The Fereldan bit is more a curiosity. I think Orlesian children are taught that we’re pretty much hulking, smelly, drooling barbarians. We _are_ , but I think they’re surprised that I can speak coherently.”

“ _I’m_ surprised that you can speak coherently.”

Malcolm glared at him and stood up. “You didn’t even think I was literate when you first met me.”

Finn grumbled, got to his feet, and started for the library at a fast enough clip that Malcolm had to scramble to catch up. “I did hear more about that ‘incident,’ you know. If you want to know. Do you want to know?”

“I’m bored. Of course I want to know. I’ll even promise to be nice to you for the next hour.”

“Two.”

“Better be good.”

“That templar you ran into last night, the Knight-Captain? She’s the one who apparently saved the Divine’s life. Which is wonderful and all, except the templar I saw this morning outside my room was kind enough to inform me that mages are now subject to more restrictions while the templars root out whatever cabal was responsible for the assassination attempt.”

“Cabal?” Malcolm frowned. “I thought you said one mage.”

“Well, where there’s one blood mage, there’s more, or so the saying goes.”

“I never said that. Usually, it’s where there’s one blood mage, there are abominations and reanimated corpses and demons and tears in the Veil, also some fire and incredibly nasty hexes and such. Sometimes there are more blood mages, but even that just means more of those nastier things I just mentioned.” When Finn failed to crack even the slightest smile, Malcolm relented on trying to avoid the looming heavy discussion. “What sort of restrictions?”

“Permissions for travel have been suspended and gatherings are forbidden. Oh, and the College of Enchanters will be disbanded after next month’s conclave.”

“I didn’t know they could do that. I thought the College was something that was and would be around forever. Kind of like Wynne.” Malcolm was fairly certain Wynne couldn’t technically die for the time being, not with her having a passenger, like Anders, who also couldn’t die the regular way. Having spirits sustaining your life was a little like cheating. The good kind, mostly, as long as nothing went wrong.

“So did I.” The comment had gotten a half-chuckle out of Finn, but he turned serious rather quickly. “Do you think it will affect the mission we’re on?”

“Shouldn’t. Permission’s already been given for you and Wynne, and if they get really nasty about it, the Wardens still have precedence. Worry not! You can still be free.”

“I hope so.”

Finn’s sudden discomfort within a Circle—when he’d been so at home before—bothered Malcolm to a degree he hadn’t expected. Of course, that meant any degree of comfort he’d found vanished, which meant he needed to find some familiarity again. Scolding from Wynne tended to do the trick. “Out of curiosity, have you seen Wynne lately?”

“Briefly yesterday, from the other side of a corridor.” Finn squinted as he thought. “Maybe. Could’ve been an illusion, for all we know.”

Sod it, he was going to let the cranky out. “How many days has it been since she abandoned us here? Four? Five? I don’t know. More than three though, right? And Wynne said a few, which means three at most, yet here we are.”

“It isn’t like we can question her about it.”

“I know. That’s part of my point.”

“Your pointless ranting?”

Malcolm couldn’t help the small smile. “You’re catching on.”

“So,” Finn said as they neared the library doors, “which book are you going to steal this time?”

“None. I didn’t steal. I borrowed. _Borrowed_.” He glared down at the shorter man. “You’d think for all your fancy schooling, you’d know the difference. I swear to the Maker, I am going to leave you in the Western Approach.”

“Wynne would make you bring me out.”

Malcolm refused to look at Finn, mostly because Finn was right. Wynne would give Malcolm a highly disapproving and disappointed glare, followed by endless little comments that would heap on the guilt. Eventually, Malcolm would run back and fetch Finn just to make Wynne stop, because putting up with Finn was pleasant compared to Wynne’s guilt trips.

In a small mercy, Finn left him to his own devices once they were inside the library. Malcolm found it hard not to gape—Kinloch Hold’s library could easily fit into one of the alcoves of the White Spire’s vast library. He picked out a couple books, purposely staying away from anything related to the elves. But when he sat down to read, he barely read at all. Instead, he ended up listening to the whispered chatter around him, because like Finn had said, there were a _lot_. Far more than he’d heard in Kinloch Hold. He couldn’t believe how incredibly right Fergus had been about Orlesians and stories—not that he’d ever tell him. Fergus was insufferable enough when it came to reveling in the always-right-elder-brother role. Malcolm saw no need to encourage him further.

Orlesians gossiped far more about their ruler than Ferelden did, and the topic at the moment was that she’d left Val Royeaux in favor of her winter palace at Halamshiral. Which, to him, sounded a little off since there was clearly the beginnings of a civil war sparking underfoot, and her seat of power was Val Royeaux. Then again, maybe it worked differently in Orlais when it came to things like internal wars, like it did with everything else. Malcolm started to pay a little more attention—because now he’d moved into an academic sort of curiosity even though it wasn’t his concern or country—which meant the mages strolling by changed subjects.

And Malcolm had no interest whatsoever in Orlesian fashion, so he went back to the not-quite-riveting _Lurking Horrors of the Deep._ While it’d initially looked interesting from the shelf, because no one could turn down ancient horrors, the horrors weren’t really all that horrific. The tome of _Martha’s Adventures in the Fade_ he’d accidentally grabbed started to look appealing. He slumped in his chair as he slipped further into boredom, wondering if there were any non-bruised templars he could find to spar with, because his mind was doing a lot more wandering than it should. Hearing rumbling rumors about some sort of upset going on in Kirkwall with how the mages and templars in the Gallows were being treated didn’t help. Not that he wasn’t beyond leaning closer to the stack of shelves behind him so he could better hear the gossiping going on behind it, but still. Hopefully, Líadan had already left Kirkwall and Sundermount and was off to places unknown to anyone.

Maybe Cáel and Ava hadn’t asked too many questions or been terribly troublesome. Maybe they were all right. Part of him wished that they missed him as much as he missed them, but then he thought that if they didn’t, at least they wouldn’t feel as much pain over being away.

_Maker_. He was getting maudlin. _Martha’s Adventures in the Fade_ it was.

Two pages in, he was blessed with more gossip from the same mages who’d been whispering fervently about Kirkwall. They’d been joined by a few more, and now they all whispered eagerly to each other about a ghost—because it couldn’t be a person—killing mages right under the templars’ noses. What worried Malcolm on hearing it was that none of _them_ seemed terribly worried about it. The ghost was actively killing their kind, and no worries at all. Just another rumor. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t, but he’d have expressed a little more concern than just passed-along whispers. More likely, he’d be shouting at templars, loudly and often.

He was fairly certain that were he a mage, he’d have been made Tranquil years ago. 

Malcolm nearly leapt out of his chair when a heavy book was suddenly deposited on the table in front of him. “What is _wrong_ with you?” he almost yelled at Finn. He managed to smother it to just beyond an angry whisper before he could get scolded by the matronly mage who’d already taken to glaring at him and at the gossiping mages.

“Take a look there.” Finn jabbed his finger at the diagram on the open page. “The Deep Roads are underneath us.”

He didn’t bother hiding the roll of his eyes. “They’re underneath everything. That’s how they work. They’re underground, under our feet, which is pretty much everything.”

Finn had the gall to look at Malcolm like he possessed the intelligence of a stick. “No, I mean there’s an entrance below the White Spire. Far below, but connected to the sewers. The notes in the margins here say that it’s sealed with a dwarven door. Can Wardens open those? I read somewhere that they could. Or heard. I can’t recall which.”

Malcolm was more than vaguely interested in the possibility of the Deep Roads being accessible from below the Spire, but he wasn’t going to entertain anyone’s thoughts about going into them. “Wardens do know how to open them, yeah. But I have no plans to open it, because it’s sealed shut for a reason. People really need to stop going around opening things that are sealed shut. Nothing good ever comes out. You know what’ll come out of this one? Darkspawn.”

“I just found it interesting.” Managing to look disappointed, Finn sat in the chair across from Malcolm. “That’s all.”

“You find everything interesting.”

Finn pretended to think. “Well, not botany. Too much dirt.”

Malcolm considered his book for a second, and then glanced over at Finn. “Bored, are you?”

“Terminally.”

“Trade books?”

“Better than nothing.”

It turned out that Finn had a fond remembrance of the Fade book, and the book Finn had found was a lot more interesting than Malcolm had first believed. He got immersed in it without meaning to, and by the time he looked up from it, the library had pretty much emptied out. The only person aside from Malcolm and Finn was a lone templar who walked in as Malcolm looked around for other people. 

“Where did everyone go?” Finn asked.

The templar shrugged. “Some big, fancy assembly for all the mages who live here. I was sent to bring you two to the Knight-Commander’s office. Senior Enchanter Wynne wants you there for a meeting she has scheduled.”

Malcolm stood. Even if he was in trouble, he welcomed the change. “Wynne isn’t at the assembly?”

“She is. First Enchanter Edmonde asked her to speak at it.”

“Why?”

“You know as much as I do, Warden.”

“Sorry about the bruised shoulder,” Malcolm said, hoping a small apology would help with getting the templar to open up with information.

“It was my cheek, and it’s fine,” said the templar. “Really, I don’t know anything more than what I’ve told you.” He motioned toward the doors. “Come on. I’d like to avoid getting into the trouble we’d find if you were late.”

Except they were on time, and promptly relegated to waiting on hard wooden benches for everyone else involved in the meeting to show up. If the Knight-Commander was in his office, he didn’t bother with inviting them in. Their current situation dragged up memories Malcolm hadn’t thought of in… years, actually. The last time he’d been forced to sit on a hard bench outside someone of import’s office had been in Weisshaupt while he and Líadan had waited for the First Warden to see them. Gunnar had still been alive then, his warm mabari eyes amusedly watching Líadan as she paced in the small hallway like a caged animal. It was a good memory, of a time when they’d only just started to realize their feelings for each other, yet it brought with it a pang of sadness, that he wouldn’t be able to see her at the end of the day and tell her what’d happened to bring the memory back.

More melancholy, and he couldn’t distract himself with a book or with teasing Finn, because Maker knew what would happen if the Knight-Commander heard.

Then finally, _finally_ , they saw Wynne and got to speak with her for longer than half a minute. She happened upon them as she came around the corner and into the anteroom outside Knight-Commander Eron’s office.

“Oh, so you are alive,” said Malcolm. “I was starting to think you’d abandoned us here.”

Wynne shot him an irritated look that he believed he didn’t warrant, at least not yet, which indicated that her lecture to the assembled mages of the White Spire had not gone well. Then she relented in her glare as she looked over at the closed door before returning her attention to them again. “Before we go in, I thought I should warn you that Knight-Commander Eron has been relieved of his duty and replaced by Lord Seeker Nicanor.”

“Why?” asked Malcolm. Eron had seemed perfectly capable. Greagoir had kept _his_ job, and he’d had blood mages and abominations rife in his Circle. Eron had only lost track of a single blood mage, and that mage had only gotten access to the Divine due to geographical convenience.

“I imagine it’s something to do with the would-be blood mage assassin of the Divine’s originating from this Circle,” said Finn.

“While I suppose that would be a rather significant lapse in duty on a Knight-Commander’s part, I still don’t see why a Seeker had to replace him. Or why I have to be near one. They aren’t really my favorite people.”

“I doubt they’re anyone’s favorite person.” Then what Malcolm had said seemed to sink in, and Finn gave him an alarmed look. “You’ve had run-ins with them before?”

“Unfortunately.” Very painful run-ins that he had no desire to repeat. “What’s this meeting about, anyway? From what I gathered last night, I wasn’t in any actual trouble with Knight-Captain Evangeline.”

Wynne paused as she started to answer, as if she wanted to ask Malcolm the story behind his comment, and then decided against it with a short shake of her head. “We’re meeting with the spirit healer I want to bring with us. We’ll have to convince the Lord Seeker that he should allow it.”

“Totally out of curiosity, not that I haven’t been asking the entire time, but do you know this spirit healer?”

Wynne’s focus remained on the closed door. “In a way.” 

Malcolm narrowed his eyes. “I don’t recall you being this evasive until recently.”

But then the Knight-Commander’s door opened, and the Lord Seeker invited them inside. Well, he invited them inside by speaking to Wynne, but said not a word to Malcolm and Finn. He motioned them to sit on chairs in corners, making it clear they were to be silent observers for whatever meeting this would truly turn out to be. Malcolm was surprised to see Knight-Captain Evangeline already there, standing practically at attention along the wall. She greeted him with a cursory nod and said nothing more. Malcolm took it in stride and picked the corner chair closer to the door. Finn took the other corner near the door, while Wynne settled herself in a chair across from Nicanor.

Malcolm did his best not to make eye contact with the Seeker, lest he give him a reason to remember what’d happened in Ferelden years ago. The Chantry had a long memory, and Malcolm had no wish to jog it. Thankfully, two enchanters were brought in quickly enough. 

Each of them appeared to be at least a decade older than Malcolm, which made him yet again grateful for Finn’s presence. It meant that he wasn’t the youngest, and he was completely happy with never being the youngest on an extended mission ever again. 

The human woman carried herself with an air of irritation, irritation she kept flicking in short glares over at the Lord Seeker. Her apparent anger was not diminished in the least by her small stature or her freckles, yet the Lord Seeker seemed not to notice. Or not care. Malcolm’s bet was on the latter. The woman sat down quickly and with enough force that it made her curly red hair bounce.

He hoped she wasn’t the healer, because the tall fellow with the dark beard seemed a lot more friendly. It was the eyes, Malcolm decided. The man’s were warm and open, while the woman’s were practically on fire. Her eyes reminded him of other prickly mages he’d known in his life, and the one she really reminded him of was Velanna.

The man reminded him of who Anders had once been, before the business with Justice. Oddly, his friendly gaze cooled a bit when he noticed Wynne.

“Hello, Rhys,” she said in a tone of voice a lot quieter than the one she’d used with Malcolm and Finn outside the office.

Then Rhys said, “Hello, Mother,” and Malcolm nearly fell out of his chair.

He ended up exchanging mutual looks of surprise with the other enchanter who’d come in with Rhys, while Finn just gaped. Of course, that was infuriatingly all Wynne and Rhys said about the matter, and didn’t explain a damn thing. Malcolm felt the immediate impulse to plan to tell Líadan later—I totally met Wynne’s son—and then remembered he wouldn’t be seeing her for a long time. By the time he did see her, this tiny revelation would be old news. His mood darkened as he recalled exactly why they’d left: so that Cáel and Ava wouldn’t end up in a place like this. Though the impulse had caught him by surprise, he did his best not to dwell, and shifted to other surprises.

Like the sodding news about Wynne’s son. ‘ _In a way,’_ the Maker’s fuzzy ass. No wonder Wynne had been so evasive. Not that her evasiveness wasn’t without cause, because Malcolm certainly would’ve not let up on question after question about him. Still. 

As Malcolm half-listened, Wynne explained the basics of their mission to Rhys and the other enchanter—who was revealed to be named Adrian—except she phrased their mission as a rescue. Her only mention of Tranquility was to name the rescue’s necessity having stemmed from the mage in question reportedly being Tranquil before possession took place, which was something Tranquility was supposed to prevent. Her partial explanation was impressive enough that it managed to sound complete, even to him, and he knew the entire plan. When she got to the part about bringing Rhys along with her, Nicanor got shouty.

Shouty was never good when it came to Seekers. Nicanor wasn’t nearly as frightening as Seeker Cassandra, but Malcolm suspected Cassandra had a special sort of talent for it.

“Absolutely not!” Nicanor finally dropped his feigned nonchalance and stood. “There is an ongoing investigation about an attack on the Divine! I am not going to let this mage—any mage—leave the Spire!”

Malcolm glanced between Rhys and Nicanor. Rhys didn’t _look_ like a blood mage. Then again, Merrill had never looked like one, either. He also didn’t seem the sort who’d cause the visible kind of trouble that an assassination attempt would be, but Anders hadn’t seemed like that, either. Malcolm straightened a little in his chair, wondering if he’d have to use the authority of the Grey Wardens to keep their mission on course. Besides, it wasn’t like he could just leave Wynne’s son here. He didn’t want any child of a friend of his to be stuck in a Circle any more than he wanted one of his children imprisoned in one.

Then Wynne said, “I thought you might say that.” As the others in the room watched her, she took out a scroll and handed it to the Lord Seeker.

Malcolm didn’t fail to notice that the wax seal was the Chantry’s, and Adrian and Rhys both raised their eyebrows on seeing it.

“The Divine has given me full authority to conduct my mission as I see fit,” Wynne said as Nicanor read over the paper. “Enchanter Rhys’ abilities are necessary to the successful completion of this mission.”

“Where did you get this?” asked Nicanor, which Malcolm believed to be an excellent question.

Wynne’s answer—from the Divine—wasn’t what Malcolm had been expecting. She had never mentioned that she happened to be an _agent of the Divine_ , and Malcolm didn’t think that people who weren’t the Divine’s agents got to carry around special, magical bits of paper that allowed them to do whatever they wanted.

A staring contest ensued between Senior Enchanter and Lord Seeker.

Malcolm wondered if it would come to blows.

Rhys seemed convinced, because his eyes moved more than once to the door behind them. He even took a step toward the door, which met with a dark glare from Evangeline, followed by a shake of her head.

Adrian rolled her eyes.

“Fine,” Nicanor snapped. “But Knight-Captain Evangeline will go with you.” He pointed at Rhys. “We need to make sure he’s returned here when your mission is completed.”

Thus began an argument over Nicanor sending an escort, and Nicanor trumped Wynne by playing a Divine card of his own, because surely Her Perfection wouldn’t object to an additional safety measure such as a well-respected templar.

And so Wynne relented.

“We should have at least one mage among us who isn’t a spirit healer,” said Rhys. “It would be safer.” He looked over at Nicanor. “And we know you’re all about safety, Lord Seeker.”

Which meant Nicanor glowered and Adrian volunteered to go and then everything was agreed upon. Wynne told the two new mages they’d be leaving the following morning, and then Rhys and Adrian walked out. After that, the Lord Seeker kicked the rest of them out aside from Evangeline, and soon enough, Malcolm and Finn found themselves standing in the hallway with Wynne.

Finn still seemed more than a little thunderstruck, which left him wonderfully speechless. Not so much for Malcolm, who turned a direct look onto Wynne. “Are you going to explain that?”

She’d yet to show any vulnerability despite what’d happened in that office, despite having practically rescued her son from the Seekers. “Explain what?”

“That letter. You know, the one from the Divine. I didn’t realize the two of you were so close.”

She remained frustratingly serene. “It’s of no consequence.”

“Right, because things of no consequence have the power to make the Lord Seeker change his mind all the time. Except they don’t.”

For a fleeting moment, he thought she’d break. Then she sidestepped his comments entirely. “Be sure you’re ready to go in the morning.” Without waiting for a reply, she walked down the corridor and passed out of sight.

Her actions left Malcolm uneasy. Wynne was—had been—someone in whom he’d put his absolute trust. Yet now, in a country long named Ferelden’s enemy, when he direly needed the solid foundation of that trust, he’d discovered that more than a few bricks of it had crumbled.


	16. Chapter 16

“Nothing can escape Falon’Din’s reach, when it is their time.”

—Dalish saying

**Líadan**

Nights were the third hardest.

Líadan sorely missed the heat Malcolm put off while they slept. The coldness of the autumn nights crept into the tent she shared with both children and her mabari, yet even with the body heat generated between the four of them, it wasn’t enough. Even this part of him couldn’t be replaced, and of the two of them, she was the luckier because she had their children as a reminder of the other. 

It wasn’t enough. She missed how he understood her without needing explanation, she missed his ability to crack the worst jokes at the worst times, she missed how he said so much but always ended up saying the right thing, she missed his easy grins, and she missed the tiny thrill that still went through her when she caught his look from across a room. She loved him and she missed him and she’d been so caught up with keeping the children safe that she hadn’t given herself time to comprehend it. She hadn’t, not until he wasn’t there in the fabric of the life she’d patched together between two peoples. A hole had been cut out, one in the shape of a big human— _human_ —man who’d always been there. And now he wasn’t and it hurt more than she’d let herself believe it could.

It was hard, but it wasn’t the hardest.

She had the children, but they couldn’t fill the gap left by her missing bondmate. Yet her bondmate had nothing to even attempt to fill the gap left by his missing family, and that was probably the hardest for him.

Revas kept watch just inside the flaps of the tent, and Líadan took up the other end, mabari and Dalish elf safekeeping the two sleeping children between them. 

The second hardest were their questions.

“We can’t go back, can we?” Ava had asked earlier.

“Why do you keep asking?” Cáel had replied. “Mamae already explained. Asking over and over again doesn’t change anything.”

“I forgot my doll.”

Cáel had rolled his eyes. “It’s a spider, not a doll. It’s wrong. No one should like being anywhere near a spider of any kind. Even a stuffed toy.”

“But I forgot her. And we can’t go back.”

Líadan had dug out the halla from her pack that night and given it to Ava. It seemed to help. Even now, in the deepest of sleeps, Ava hugged it close to her chest. 

Morning found them facing the edge of the Brecilian Forest as Líadan packed up and the children ate a simple breakfast of bread, cheese, and a couple of the Brecilian apples Alistair had snuck into Líadan’s food supplies. The Nevarran cheese had been from him, too. But it was the note he’d included in his pristine Chantry-learned handwriting that had drawn a tremble to her fingers holding the scrap of paper. _Your family will be together again. I promise._ His handwriting was so familiar that he hadn’t even needed to sign it. Though he had signed it, she was sure, out of habit. 

Forcing the memory away, she finished lashing the pack containing her Warden armor to the grey courser she rode. The mare had been trained as a hunting horse before the Wardens bought her, and her trainers had been rather unoriginal with their naming, which meant she went by Hunter. Líadan hadn’t minded. In fact, it had been what’d drawn her to the horse in the first place. She and Revas had taken a liking to Hunter, and the mare had taken a liking to her and the mabari, and Líadan had become Hunter’s usual rider. She hoped she’d be able to bring the mare all the way to the Suriel. Hunter was the first horse she’d truly gotten attached to during her time with humans.

Her Warden armor had been packed away in favor of her Dalish leathers, the leathers more suitable for hiding in the forest, and to stay as low-profile as possible. Once they got to Kirkwall, she’d switch, because she didn’t want to risk the templars there getting overzealous and trying to capture her before she could tell them—and prove—that she was a Grey Warden.

Once Hunter was saddled and ready to go, Líadan turned her attention to the two ponies the children rode. Out of necessity, each child had started riding lessons at five years old, yet they were far from experienced riders. It meant Líadan had needed to bring the ponies the children already knew, who were both familiar with the children and well-tempered. The terrain would be rough in places, and while Ava was an exceptional rider with a great deal of confidence, Cáel was less so. He was decent, but he did fall off every now and then, and tended to blame it on his chestnut gelding. While Cáel hadn’t named his pony, he’d come with an appropriate name, given his rider: Boot. It helped that Boot was also affectionate and incredibly patient, which meant he would stand and wait whenever Cáel went tumbling off him. Líadan finished with Boot’s saddle, gave him a fond rub on the muzzle, and moved on to Ava’s pony, Sid.

Revas gamboled around them, once again excited about traveling like she had when she’d only been a mostly grown pup. The ponies, being proper Fereldan ponies, as Fergus had called them, paid no mind to the mabari. The hounds were trusted by Fereldan horses, not feared.

“Are we going into the Brecilian today?” Cáel asked from behind Líadan.

“Yes. You’ll have to ride even more carefully.”

“I know,” he said. “I’ve just heard stories about the forest. This forest. That it’s dangerous.”

On hearing the note of fear in his voice, Líadan turned to look at him, where he sat on a rock. “Just what stories have you heard?” She’d been careful to not repeat _any_ of the stories about the Brecilian Forest. Mostly because the legends of late had more to do with the Dalish being a danger to humans than they did spirits crossing the thin Veil. 

Cáel’s eyes flicked over to the forest and then back to Líadan. “Um, about the trees. Sylvans, I think they’re called? Possessed trees that move.”

“And who told you that story?” Líadan knew it wasn’t Nuala, because Nuala was a lot smarter than that when it came to these two children and their overactive imaginations. They certainly didn’t need any hints of real dangers to inspire nightmares.

The sudden dejected look in Cáel’s eyes told Líadan exactly who’d been telling the children stories: Malcolm. 

“I—nevermind.” She grimaced at tripping over her words and ran her fingers through her hair. “We should be fine. I grew up in this forest, and we should be able to find the Dalish who live here now. Even if we don’t talk with them, they’ll chase away any creatures from wild tales.” Líadan wasn’t about to tell them that sylvans were actually real. It was likely they’d never voluntarily go near a tree ever again, which could prove very problematic when they had to travel through a decidedly vast forest.

“Are you mad at Papa?” asked Ava. “Is that why we left?”

Líadan wondered how long Ava had been holding in that question. She’d been certain it would’ve been one of the first ones Cáel or Ava asked, but this was the first she’d heard of it. “No, I’m not mad at him. I miss him very much, but we both decided we needed to keep you and your brother safe. Keeping the two of you safe means we have to be apart for now.”

Ava looked over Líadan’s shoulder at Dragon’s Peak, toward where Denerim lay beyond. “Will we ever go back?”

“I don’t know.”

“She means no,” said Cáel. 

Líadan frowned at him. “If I’d meant no, I would have said it. Instead, I told you the truth. I don’t know if we’ll go back, because I don’t know when or if circumstances will allow us to return.”

“That means me not being a mage.” Ava, apparently having decided that half her apple was enough, tossed the rest to Revas. “We could do that, and then we could go home.”

Cáel shot to his feet as he hurled the core of his apple into the grass. “No! I know what happens if you take away a mage’s magic. I’ve seen them, the Tranquil. They aren’t real anymore. They look like they’re alive, but they’re filled with ashes inside, where their soul used to be. You can’t let that happen to you.” He swung to look at Líadan, his eyes panicked and pleading. “Mamae, don’t let her do it!”

“I would die before I’d allow it.” 

Her statement relaxed Cáel, but sent Ava into a panic. “Is it that bad?”

“Worse,” said Líadan, doing her best to soften her tone—talking about Tranquility tended to make it harsh, and harsh was the last thing either of the children needed. “I would rather die than be made Tranquil, and so would every other mage I know. Your brother is right. When the Chantry makes a mage Tranquil, it rips something from them other than magic, and kills them all the same, even though they still walk and talk. It’s horrific, and I would never let that happen to you.”

“But if I keep my magic, how will we go home?”

The hardest was that Líadan couldn’t simply make everything better. She couldn’t change their situation. She couldn’t change the influence of the Chantry. She couldn’t change the human and Andrastian opinions of magic. She couldn’t change the intractable dislike and distrust her people, especially her grandfather and her clan, had for humans. She couldn’t reunite their little family until those things changed, and her inability to do something meaningful about it was the worst of all.

“I don’t know,” she said, and she wished she did. When neither child had a reply, she motioned them toward their ponies. “Come on. I’ll help you up. We need to get going. We’ve got a lot of travel ahead of us.”

“Where are we going?” Cáel asked as he balanced himself in his saddle. “You said the Dalish, but that’s really it.”

Líadan waited until she was certain he had his balance before she completely let go. “First to the Mahariel clan outside Kirkwall, and then another clan will meet us there after a little while. Then we’ll go with them to my grandfather’s clan, wherever they’ve set up camp, far away from the rest of civilization.”

“I didn’t know you had a grandfather,” Ava said as Líadan helped her up.

Cáel rolled his eyes. “Everyone has one. Just some of them are alive and some aren’t.”

Ava made a face at her brother before returning her attention to their mother. “Why are we going to see him?”

“He agreed to be your teacher.”

“But Keeper Perran was my teacher. He said I was doing all right.”

Líadan let go of Ava and waited for her to be settled before she went to her own horse. “He doesn’t—Keeper Perran is a good teacher, but he isn’t the best teacher for you, specifically.” She hoisted herself into her saddle, and then headed into the forest. Cáel and Ava followed behind her, and Revas took up a rear guard position. Ava must have been thinking over Líadan’s words, because they rode in silence for quite some time. Enough that Líadan began to scan for signs of Dalish hunters, while at the same time looking for reliable sources of water and game. She hoped they’d come across Dalish hunters that day so she could speak with them. There were a lot of clans in the Brecilian Forest, though they would be starting the process of packing up to head to warmer northern lands for the winter. If she could speak with various hunters, she believed she’d be able to gain permission to set up her tent within the bounds of a clan’s patrols. It would make sleeping at night easier, knowing a watch was being kept.

Given that she’d worn Dalish hunting leathers instead of her Warden gear, and that anyone could plainly see her _vallaslin_ , she knew if hunters spotted her riding through the forest, they’d more than likely greet her. The closer the clans followed the edict declaring Dalish Grey Wardens to be a clan of their own—Perran had even been made their Keeper years before—the easier time Líadan would have asking for protection as she traveled. While her having two human children with her would add some difficulty, she could at least hope they’d allow the basic protection of a simple camp.

“It has to do with the demons disappearing, doesn’t it?” Ava asked. If Líadan hadn’t already been familiar with this habit of her daughter’s, she’d have thought the question asked out of nowhere. 

“Yes,” said Líadan. “It does.”

“Why were they after me?”

“Because of what you are.”

“Demons go after any mages,” said Cáel. “Right?”

“Yes and no. They like strong mages because they crave their power. Mages with weaker magic, they really don’t care about. But why they’re after Ava isn’t only because she’s a mage. She’s a special kind of mage that almost no one knows how to teach.”

“And your grandfather does? How?” asked Cáel.

“Because he’s the same kind of mage, and he’s the one who figured out that Ava is like him. He’s the reason the demons stopped going after her.”

“He is?” asked Ava.

“He’s protecting you from the demons,” said Líadan. “Long enough until he can teach you how to properly protect yourself.”

“That’s awfully nice of him to do for someone he hasn’t met.”

Líadan couldn’t help her quiet laugh. “Oh, he’s met you. But that’s a story for another time.” Telling Ava about her peculiar birth wasn’t a story to be told on horseback. “Maybe tonight, after—” She fell silent and drew her horse to a stop. Behind her, the two ponies followed the mare’s lead and halted. Líadan snatched her strung bow from her back and nocked an arrow as she continued to search the underbrush along the faint trail they’d been following. “ _Ar inan ma. Tu na’bel ena_ ,” she said, her voice pitched to a command. _I see you. Make yourselves known_.

A party of four Dalish hunters emerged from the trees, which caused Ava to gasp softly. She hadn’t known they were there, but Líadan had. The hunters had strung bows in their hands, but none had a nocked arrow. The lead hunter was even amused, greeting her with a smile and a chuckle. “ _Aneth ara_ , Líadan Mahariel,” he said to her. “We wondered how long it would take you to notice us. Not long. Your skills have not dulled.”

She slipped her arrow back into the quiver, and then re-slung her bow. “You were expecting me?” 

“For the past month, our Keeper has told us to be on the lookout for you on our hunts. The clan is half a day from here, and we welcome you to stay for your night’s rest. Just follow the trail. You know the signs for a Dalish camp. We’d go with you, but we haven’t caught enough game yet for our winter journey north. _Dareth shiral_.”

Then, as easily as they appeared, they were gone, once again part of the forest.

Ava stared after them in awe. “Can you do that?” she asked Líadan after a few moments.

“Yes. I was a hunter before I was a Warden.”

“That’s… really cool,” said Cáel. “Also creepy.”

She almost told him that he sounded like his father, but refrained. A comment like that made right now would only remind them of what they’d lost. “Maybe you’ll learn one day.” Líadan stared into the brush for bit longer. She’d assumed there would be some degree of difficulty in gaining permission to camp with a clan’s bounds, and now it appeared she’d been invited. Not that she minded having one less thing to worry about, but it felt strange, like it’d been too easy.

“Maybe,” said Cáel. “But I’m not really the quietest.”

“No, but you aren’t Dane, so there’s hope for you, yet.”

“I’m not Dalish, either.”

“You’re still my son. If you ever want to learn, I will gladly teach you.” She glanced over at Ava, who’d shifted her attention to her mother and brother. “Either of you.”

Ava pursed her lips, her thoughts churning as she considered Líadan in a different way. “I keep forgetting you’re Dalish.”

“What?” asked Cáel, eagerly jumping on the chance to turn the heavy conversation away from him. “How can you forget? It isn’t like it’s right there on her face, except that it is.”

She scowled at him. “I meant the…” Ava took one of her hands from the reigns and waved it around, as if summoning her answer from the air. “The Elvish. We don’t hear it very much.”

“I don’t really have much occasion to speak it while in Denerim,” said Líadan. After having Ava say that hearing it from Líadan took her by surprise, Líadan decided she’d speak it a whole lot more. Then again, there wouldn’t be much choice in the matter soon. The Suriel used Elvish more than any other clan, and wouldn’t change their ways for two human children. Thankfully, children had an easier time when it came to learning new languages, and doubtless they’d be fluent after a year, maybe less given that they’d hear it all day. Part of her was happy that they’d at least carry that much of the Dalish with them.

When they arrived at the camp as the sun dropped below the trees, Líadan’s confusion only grew. Not only did this clan’s Keeper greet her warmly, but she invited them to set up their tent within the cluster of aravels, and for the children to join the clan’s children when the _hahren_ told her stories. And it all happened without a single question leveled at Líadan. Nothing about why she traveled, nothing about why she had the children with her, and nothing about the lack of her human bondmate at her side. At first, she assumed it a strange quirk of that first clan, the Iahmel. 

Then, within days, the same happened with another clan, and another clan after that. Some greetings were less warm, a mere granting of the original permission Líadan sought, for the hunters’ protection as she and her children slept. Yet, most followed the example set by the first Keeper who’d welcomed them.

It didn’t take her terribly long to figure out why: Emrys. It seemed her grandfather had somehow communicated with enough Keepers that they knew he expected her to be granted safe passage as she traveled to his clan. It made her at once grateful for her grandfather’s interventions, and yet resentful of the special treatment. But she endured it, for it meant her children’s safety.

Camping nights within the view the Dalish didn’t bring Líadan any comfort. This was a dream from long ago and equally as long given up, living with her family amongst the Dalish. But this wasn’t a fulfillment of that dream. Her children weren’t elven, nor were they one of the People. Their father wasn’t there. Líadan’s bondmate wasn’t there, and part of the dream had been somehow sharing this life with him.

Tonight they were a little separate from the clan they were staying with, Líadan going through a simple magic lesson with Ava as Cáel played a game of tug-of-war with Revas. Líadan would be grateful to hand Ava’s training off to a more competent mage. Ava’s raw power far exceeded her own, and while in theory she knew how to control such power, she’d never had to put it into practice. The quickness with which Ava learned to summon a spell wisp was astonishing. Within minutes, Ava could summon one with barely a thought, convince it to do practically anything she wanted it to, and then send it back to the Beyond with just as little an effort.

Líadan could barely get the wisps to appear in the first place, and once they did, they never obeyed her. “Well,” she said to Ava, “Keeper Perran was right. You’re exponentially more powerful than I am. I can toss some lightning now and then, but not much more. I don’t think I even qualify as a battle mage, not after seeing what the other Wardens can do. Or what you’ll be capable of doing, once you’ve learned it.”

“What kind of mage am I?” Ava asked. “Could I be a healer like Wynne?”

“Maybe. Most mages have an aspect of their magic that comes easily to them. For healers like Wynne, it’s creation magic. For you, I think it will be a little more complicated.”

Cáel let Revas take the now-shredded sock. While Revas trotted about to revel in her victory, Cáel stood up and turned his attention to the others. “Complicated, how? I thought specialties were one of the uncomplicated parts of magic.” He frowned slightly. “Or the only one that isn’t complicated, really.”

“Maybe it’s lightning, like what happened with you,” Ava said to Cáel.

Líadan raised an eyebrow. “That’s what happened?” Ava’s statement was the closest thing to a confession anyone had gotten from either child.

Cáel gave his sister a withering look and then scuffed his feet on the grass. “I was teasing her. All day.”

“I knew that much,” said Líadan.

“I couldn’t hold my temper anymore,” said Ava. “So I pushed him, and there was lightning in my hands. What sort of magic is that?”

“Primal. But it isn’t always the first bit of magic that shows that is your specialty.” Líadan glanced over at the Dalish clan beginning to gather around the central fires, and then back to her children. “For instance, when Wynne showed magic for the first time, it was to set a boy’s hair on fire.” She looked pointedly at Cáel. “Because he’d been teasing her.” 

He rolled his eyes.

Líadan returned to Ava. “But Wynne is a healer, and a very good one. With you, it’s even harder to predict what you’ll be. Your particular affinity for a certain type of magic is more an inherent trait than specialty. While most mages can do each type of magic, just with different levels of skill, your kind of ability is one that almost no other mages can do. My grandfather is the same kind of mage. That’s why he’s protecting you, and why, instead of Keeper Perran, he’s going to teach you. And before you, he and his apprentice were the only people who had the same ability as you do.” She held Ava’s gaze so she could see how serious a subject it was. “You’re what’s called a Dreamer. Eventually, you’ll be able to control the Beyond like a spirit can.”

“I don’t want to be a Dreamer,” said Ava.

“We didn’t want you to, either,” said Líadan. “Not only will spirits come after you more aggressively than they do other mages, but the humans and their Chantry will seek you out, too.”

“That’s why we’re hiding, isn’t it?” Cáel’s frown grew deeper. “I know Ava has to be hidden, but why do I? Why did we all have to leave Papa by himself?”

Líadan sighed. It seemed the two of them were determined to ask all the hard questions tonight. “Because of who your first mother was. She’s an incredibly powerful mage, and before she left Thedas, the Chantry pursued her. They sent an entire legion of templars after her. And, once, when you were less than a year old, the Chantry tried to take you, too. If they found out that your sister is a mage, or Creators forbid, a Dreamer, they’ll not only come after her, but they’ll come after you.” She alternated looking at each child. “Aside from the Dalish, neither of you can tell anyone. Under no circumstances can you ever tell a human or anyone who’s part of the Chantry. If there are any exceptions, I will be the one to tell you, and I will tell you directly. I won’t tell someone else to tell you it’s safe. If someone says that, they’re trying to trick you. So don’t tell anyone.”

Cáel’s frown had fallen away, driven off by his escalating worry. “What would they do?”

Líadan knew she had to be entirely honest. It was the only way to be sure she got through to them how important it was for the Chantry not to know. “They would probably put Ava through the Rite of Tranquility.” Even saying it caused a pain she couldn’t describe.

Ava’s eyes widened. “They’d make me Tranquil? _Why?_ ”

“Out of fear. Fear makes people more dangerous than anything else ever could.”

Ava moved to sit on Líadan’s lap, which was a clear sign of how scared she was. Líadan tucked her daughter’s head under her chin, and then put her right arm around her middle to hold her close. Then Cáel found his own seat next to Líadan, looking like he wanted to protect his sister as much as their mother did, and Líadan put her free arm around him. Much as he tended to want to protect Ava, it was Líadan’s job to do so. He was just a little boy. She was a Dalish hunter, a Grey Warden, and their mother.

As they’d talked, Revas had ceased her trotting about and spread her bulk across the ground at their feet. Cáel’s eyes were distant as the three of them looked over at the flickering fires in the middle of the Dalish camp, where more of the clan had gathered and were telling tales. Their laughter sometimes drifted over to the small, broken family sitting beyond the cluster of aravels. 

“I miss Papa and Nan,” said Ava. “I hope they’re okay.”

“Do you think Papa is lonely?” asked Cáel.

Líadan felt a slight tug of a smile, knowing that Malcolm would try to be lonely, but his brothers wouldn’t let him. “Probably. But he does have your uncles, at least.”

“Not the same.”

“No, not really.”

“Like you have us, but it isn’t the same. And we have you, but it isn’t the same as having you _and_ Papa.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“You miss him, don’t you?” asked Ava.

Líadan held both of them a little tighter. “Very much.” And that empty pain of _missing_ returned. Had she even told him that she loved him before she’d left? It was just something she’d assumed he knew, that it didn’t need to be said repeatedly, that her continued presence at his side, living among humans, said as much. Except she’d left his side to protect their children, and she wasn’t sure if she’d reassured him, out loud, that she loved him.

She hoped she wouldn’t live to regret it, that she would be able to see him again and tell him.

In the days of travel that followed, to distract herself from the tearing in her heart, Líadan began to teach the children how the Dalish hunted. She taught them how to recognize the presence of deer, then rabbits, pheasants, and other small game, how to track them, how to move in silence, how to make snares and find the best places to set them. Given their father, they both proved better at it than she’d expected. The new activities served to distract them as much as they did her, and they were better for it. Líadan managed to convince one of the bowyers from a host clan to let her barter for two small bows made for the youngest of hunter apprentices, along with equivalently-sized quivers and a good supply of arrows. Both Cáel and Ava had been delighted with their prizes, and paid even more attention to learning fieldcraft.

Revas did well at keeping the horses quiet and safe whenever Líadan took the children deeper into the woods, where a horse would be too loud for them to effectively track quarry for dinner. But they were careful to remain within the range of as many Dalish hunting patrols as possible, where they would pass unbothered, yet safe from many dangers, including humans. Still, Líadan never let her vigilance drop, not where humans or the Brecilian were concerned.

Over a cold breakfast the morning before they entered Gwaren, Ava asked how Líadan’s grandfather knew her. “I don’t remember meeting him,” she said.

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Líadan said as she double-checked their supply of coin. “You’d just been born.” When Líadan glanced over at her, Ava looked even more impossibly confused than before, and Líadan gave her a reassuring smile. “Emrys saved your life, _da’len_.”

“How?”

“Magic, probably,” Cáel said absentmindedly as he tested a nearby rock to serve as a mounting block.

Ava glared at her brother before turning to Líadan again. “How?”

Líadan tucked the coinpurse into her belt, and then made sure it was carefully covered with the plain woolen cloak Nuala had sent with her. While Líadan was quick enough to catch pickpockets in the act—Sigrun had also taught her how to recognize them in crowds, and how to recognize if they were actively trying to take her purse—she didn’t want to deal with the hassle of running one down. “I’m honestly still not sure how,” she said to Ava. “Your brother’s right about it being magic. Healing magic of some sort, but something more powerful than I’ve ever witnessed, both before and after. You didn’t take a single breath when you came into this world, and somehow, he helped you take that breath.”

“If he saved my life, why haven’t we seen him since?”

Líadan barely knew how to describe to herself the rather complicated relationship she had with her grandfather. She doubted even he could properly describe it. But she had to try. “Emrys is… very old. Older than anyone else you know. And—”

“Older than Wynne?” asked Cáel, not looking the slightest bit sorry for interrupting.

“Much older,” said Líadan. “Compared to him, Wynne is a child. What I was going to say was that his clan is very traditional, and—”

Again, Cáel couldn’t hold in his observation. “Meaning they don’t like humans.”

She let out a small sigh. “No, they really don’t. But you two are different from the usual sort of human, and even the usual kind of elf-blooded humans. You,” she said to Cáel, “are blood of _Asha’belannar_.” She switched to Ava. “And you are a Dreamer. As it happens, Emrys’ other apprentice, Feynriel, is an elf-blooded human. So, I suspect they’ve learned some tolerance since I last saw Emrys and his clan.”

“But you’re not human. You’re Dalish,” said Ava. “Why haven’t you seen him?”

Líadan held in her sigh. “We disagree more than we agree.”

“I don’t think that was a real answer,” said Cáel.

“And, sometimes, you’re too clever by half,” Líadan told him. When he didn’t relent with his questioning look, she decided she’d try to explain further. “He and I disagreed over something that happened many years ago, and we’ve never really reached agreement since then. Unless it’s necessary for Emrys and I to work together, we go our separate ways.”

“Do you even like him?” asked Ava.

“I suppose I do.” Líadan helped Ava onto Sid as she did her best to answer. “But I think sometimes I love him more than I like him. He’s my grandfather, and nothing will change that. When he saved you, he even proved to me that he cared about my children, even though you’re both human. But there _are_ times when I still don’t like him.” She didn’t tell them that it was most of the time, and that she’d really taken a disliking to him lately. He was part of the reason why she would be separated from Malcolm for the near future. Yet, Emrys was also the reason why Ava wouldn’t be chased down and destroyed by spirits or the Chantry, why Cáel would be kept safe, and so she loved him for that.

“I guess it makes sense.” Cáel had brought Boot over to the rock he’d found, hopped up on it, and was eyeing his saddle for an attempt to mount the horse. “Sort of like how Ava and I am, or how Papa is with Uncle Fergus or Uncle Alistair.”

Líadan nodded. “Exactly.” Mostly exactly, because she believed there was a lot more like between her bondmate and his brothers than there was between her and her grandfather. But those were nuances she really didn’t want to get into. The explanation seemed to satisfy both children, and they started for the coastal town.

Gwaren presented no problems for them, and no pickpockets, either. They took ship that afternoon, having found berths on one bound for Cumberland. She’d chosen to leave from Gwaren because it would’ve been assumed she’d head for the Wardens in Amaranthine, along with the port they ostensibly controlled—and because the trip via sea would’ve been shorter from Amaranthine. Líadan still hadn’t gotten over her seasickness.

In her supply of health poultices and potions, Bethany had thoughtfully included ones against seasickness, enough for Líadan and both children, if need be. Luckily, it seemed neither child suffered from Líadan’s problem with illness at sea. It certainly gave more credence that had Ava not been a Dreamer, they all could’ve taken sail with Isabela. Cáel and Ava had made themselves quite at home on the ship, the both of them often climbing out on the netting of the bowsprit, which tended to scare her and the sailors both if they didn’t climb back to the deck when the waves became rough.

They scampered about the deck, somehow managing to keep out from underfoot of the crew. And since they stayed out of the way, the captain hadn’t yet scolded them like he’d done to several of the other younger passengers. Every day had gone like this one during their passage, with Cáel and Ava out from belowdecks and hanging off the rails or perched on the bowsprit netting, faces gleefully pointed into the wind and spray. It was the only time since they’d left Denerim that she’d seen them truly happy. With night returned their sadness and fear, but in the daytime on the ship, they were happy souls.

The ship had been at sea for eight days, with one or two more set before them, and the children still hadn’t gotten bored. Though Líadan couldn’t quite identify with liking sea travel, watching them have such joy aboard a ship gave her memories of Malcolm and how much their children resembled him in these moments. Their smiles were reflections of his, and seeing them this happy was something she could watch all day. It even warmed her enough that she used naval terms without complaint. Malcolm would’ve been astonished.

“We’ll be taking harbor probably tomorrow, give or take a sudden squall,” the ship’s captain said as he walked up to her. “Those wee ones of yours will be a might sad.”

“They will, yes.” She did feel a little bit bad that she couldn’t let them stay on a ship until they could be with Malcolm again.

“They took to the sea pretty well, I’d say. They seem to like it, but you, I think you just tolerate it.”

She gave him a half-smile. “Their father was the sailor, not me.” It helped that it was mostly true. Had Malcolm not been a teyrn’s son and later a prince and Grey Warden, he’d have become a sailor. She had no doubt whatsoever about that.

“Ah.” The captain nodded. “Who’d he crew for, before he passed?”

Líadan only knew the name of one ship captain, which meant it was the only one she could give. “Captain Isabela.”

He stared at her for a moment. “Queen of the Eastern Seas? That Captain Isabela?”

“I’d heard she was called that from time to time.” It was easy to forget that so many of the people she knew weren’t exactly ordinary people. Some of them, such as Isabela, were even legends.

The captain’s laugh was loud and rolling and oddly fond before he turned somber. “Your husband must’ve been aboard when she lost the _Siren’s Call_. I know I don’t sound it, but I am sorry for your loss. You just didn’t strike me as the type who’d’ve been married to a pirate, is all.”

“Neither did I, until I met him.” Granted, it was more she hadn’t thought she’d bond with a human, and it’d taken her quite a bit of time after she’d met him to admit it, but it was close to the same.

“That’s the way it goes, isn’t it? Never what you’d expect and only when you aren’t looking. You wouldn’t think it to look at me, but my wife’s Orlesian.”

Líadan swung her head around to see him. “Really?”

He guffawed. “Sure is! After we leave Cumberland, we’ll be putting in at Jader. She’ll be waiting for me there. It’ll be good to see her. Been a while.”

Since the captain had such a soft touch, Líadan found herself truly curious. “Do you have children?”

“I do.” The smile on his face was one Líadan had seen on Malcolm countless numbers of times—a proud, loving father given the opportunity to talk about his children. “Three little girls. Oldest two are just like their mother. Very Orlesian, but Maker love ‘em, just like I do. My littlest one, though… I think she’ll be taking over for me when I can’t sail anymore. She’s never happier than when she’s in a ship on water. Something in the blood, I think, gives her that. Like with your two, particularly the wee girl.”

Despite the situation, Líadan laughed. “Captain Isabela said almost the same thing. She offered to take her as her apprentice.”

“She’s a good woman, you know. Even with the piracy. Does good by her crew. All she asks is loyalty in return.” The captain glanced over to where Cáel and Ava were climbing back onto the netting. “I hear tell she’s got a ship again. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to see if her offer still stands for your girl. Considering how happy she is out here, it might be the best thing for her.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Líadan. She would. She’d even wish that she could accept Isabela’s offer, but not with Ava being a Dreamer.

“Good luck to you,” said the captain.

“Have a lovely visit with your family,” she said in return, and she meant it.

They disembarked in Cumberland a day later, for Líadan didn’t want to go directly by sea to Kirkwall. She preferred the safety of the Planasene Forest and the likely presence of Dalish clans there. If no clans were around, then just as if she hadn’t encountered any clans in the Brecilian, she knew how to keep herself and the children hidden. While she vastly preferred having hunters watch over them, she wasn’t without the lessons she’d learned in keeping a clan’s whereabouts unknown from human passersby.

No Dalish clans were within the Planasene Forest, not that Líadan saw. Even if hunters had never approached them, she would have recognized signs of a nearby clan or a Dalish hunting party. She and the children camped well away from the main trail, went off trail as much as they could, and remained vigilant. Revas ran her own patrol, making great loops around them as she investigated smells and sounds. In an effort to further distract herself, Líadan resumed teaching Cáel and Ava how to hunt. Even the nine days aboard a ship hadn’t lessened their enthusiasm, nor had it lessened the skills they’d already learned. Only two days into their trip through the forest, both of them could recite the _Vir Tanadahl._

Watching them take so well to arts she held so dear brightened her mood, and part of her even began to look forward to seeing her clan, no matter how they might be received. Fenarel would probably object, but she could fend him off like she always had. It would be good to see Cammen again, and Ava would probably like to meet the person who’d crafted her stuffed spider. Keeper Marethari would be, well, Marethari, but no matter how much the older elf frustrated Líadan, Marethari was still the Keeper. Maren’s daughter Saraid was probably a proper hunter apprentice by now, unless she’d leaned more toward tending the halla like her mother. Saraid had been very open as a young child, and would probably help Cáel and Ava adjust in the time they were to spend with the Mahariel. Master Ilen, gentle soul that he was, would guide all three of them as best he could. He’d be able to tell even more stories to Cáel and Ava about Liadan’s parents, so they could know more of their Dalish heritage. And if Líadan managed to get Merrill to come with her out of Kirkwall, it would be Sylaise’s blessing in helping to get everyone smoothly adjusted to the change.

“What did you and your grandfather disagree about?” Ava asked from her perch on Sid, walking shoulder to shoulder with Líadan’s horse. “You never said.”

“No, I didn’t.” They’d resumed riding for the day after a speedy midday meal, eager to reach the Dalish camp at Sundermount and have a chance to truly rest while others kept a good watch.

“Oh, come on,” said Cáel. “You complain about us not giving real answers.”

He sounded so much like Malcolm that her breath caught. Then she shook it off and focused on her children. “We disagreed about a lot of things. Which thing are you asking about?”

“The one that made you not like each other, I guess,” said Ava. “What was that one about?”

“That one was about my parents.”

Cáel grumbled under his breath. “And?”

She sighed and then told them a shortened, edited version of the story about how her parents had been killed by templars while protecting her from them. “Afterward, when he showed up after their burial, I thought Emrys would bring me back to his clan since he was my blood kin, but he didn’t. He believed I should stay, but he didn’t tell me he thought it would be better for me to stay with the clan I’d known my whole life. Since he didn’t bother to tell me, I believed he blamed me for what happened to my parents.”

“It was the templars, though,” said Cáel.

“I didn’t say it was a rational belief. Minds are funny like that.”

“Couldn’t he just say he’s sorry?” asked Ava.

Laughter bubbled up in Líadan’s throat and she desperately fought to keep it in. Ava wouldn’t understand the context, and hearing laughter as an answer to her earnest, valid question would hurt. “I doubt Emrys would ever voluntarily apologize,” she said.

“But what if he did?”

“If he did…” She wasn’t certain. She believed so strongly that Emrys never would that she’d never considered what she’d do if he did. “I don’t know. It would be a start. You’ll have to ask me again after he does apologize, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up that he will.”

“Maybe I can change his mind.”

“Maybe you can.” After all, she had once before. When Ava didn’t seem inclined to continue the conversation, Líadan used the free moment to take stock of their surroundings.

From the closeness of Sundermount dominating the horizon, Líadan knew they should have run into some of the Mahariel’s patrolling hunters. She hoped Junar would be leading the patrol, since even if he disagreed with something, he tended to be quiet about it. A hunting party led by Fenarel would set exactly the wrong tone for her children’s introduction to the clan that had raised her. Yet, they hadn’t run into a single patrol. 

Maybe they’d finally come to their senses and had left, escaping the danger of living near the thin Veil of Sundermount. If that turned out to be the case, Líadan wouldn’t be able to stay there with the children alone. She decided she’d get Merrill, and then return to one of the clans in the Brecilian, to see if any of them knew where Emrys’ or Lanaya’s clans were. Then she could travel to them herself. 

If it meant the Mahariel had freed themselves of Sundermount, she didn’t mind the extra time she’d have to spend traveling, especially if she could convince Merrill to come with them.

“Sundermount is getting big,” said Cáel.

Líadan glanced back at him, allowing her amusement to show. “If you want to ask if we’re there yet, just ask. You aren’t going to fool anyone by making observations that say the same thing.”

He huffed. “Fine. Are we there yet?”

“We should be able to see their camp after the next bend.”

Líadan felt the Veil thin as they rounded the bend, and cold fingers of apprehension slipped down the back of her neck. If they were still there, she’d have to get Marethari to move the camp into the Planasene. With the Veil this dangerously thin, the Beyond might even start to be visible in some places soon. But she assumed the clan had gone, since they’d still yet to meet with any hunters.

As they rode through the clearing to approach the main entrance of the camp, Líadan could see the aravels, their sails up and waving in the moderate wind. But only half the sails were raised—hoisted, Malcolm would’ve said on a human ship—and those were in tatters. Apprehension took full hold as she slid from her horse. After tying Hunter to the pole bearing the clan’s banner, she did the same for Boot and Sid before she took the children off them. Líadan glanced up at the camp, and then down at Cáel and Ava. She wasn’t sure what she’d find in the camp—and wasn’t sure she wanted to—but she didn’t want to leave them here alone with Revas, not with the Veil so thin. A mabari could only do so much.

“I need you to stay right next to Revas,” she said to them. “And when I tell you to stay put, you stay put. Understand?”

They both nodded, their eyes reflecting the graveness in her own. Revas barked her own acknowledgement, and then moved to Ava’s side. The mabari knew which of the children would be in more danger from the thin Veil, it seemed.

Líadan’s apprehension churned into outright dread once they walked into the middle of the camp. The clan’s aravels, their homes, their possessions—they were all there, but broken apart and scattered. The people were gone.

“Where are they?” asked Ava.

“I don’t think Mamae knows,” said Cáel.

She didn’t. She tried to ignore the dark foreboding rising from the panic in her chest. “Both of you, stay right here with Revas. Unless something attacks you, don’t move. Something is wrong.” That was possibly the biggest understatement she’d made in her entire life, but she couldn’t tell Cáel and Ava what she herself didn’t yet know.

Once the children agreed, Líadan first walked from one aravel to another, and then ran, aravel to aravel, but all she found were scavengers, rodents and nesting birds. Her throat constricted as the panic and darkness rose, nearly stealing her ability to speak as she returned to the center of the camp. “Follow me,” she told the children.

The four of them, Líadan in the lead, the children behind her, and Revas guarding from the rear, headed for the next bend. She wanted to run, and then she didn’t want to walk at all, her fast walk slowing to a hesitant step as they passed the trailhead to Sundermount and turned toward the small field where the Wardens had once camped.

A fledgling forest greeted her.

Standing in what had been a meadow on her last visit were saplings upon saplings, light green leaves whispering in the dulling wind, voices from the dead. A gasp came from behind her—Ava putting together the lesson she’d learned recently about Dalish funeral rites and what she saw before her—but Líadan didn’t turn. The dread and darkness together blurred her vision as she looked at the graves of the Mahariel.

“They’re all dead,” Cáel whispered.

All of them. Líadan didn’t even need to count to be sure, the saplings so many to be evidence enough. All of them, down to every child. How had they all died at once? She hadn’t thought Sundermount’s danger would take everyone like this. 

“Stay here,” she told Cáel and Ava, and then walked carefully through the young forest, her hands touching every well-planted tree. Whoever had buried them had cared enough to address at least one painstaking detail Dalish custom called for with their dead.

Her only plausible answer was Merrill. Andrastians would have lit a massive pyre, and qunari would have left the dead where they’d fallen. Maybe Merrill already knew. Maybe she’d come up for an item only Master Ilen would’ve had, like the carvings of Falon’Din and Dirthamen, and found worse than what Líadan had. Maybe she’d gotten Marian and the others to help with the burials, to help plant the trees and find the proper branches. Maybe she’d been the one to finally set out the statues of the Creators to watch over the clan as they went on their last journey into the Beyond. Maybe Merrill was alive, one last living member of her mother clan.

As she brushed her fingers over the bark of the last tree, Líadan whispered a prayer to Falon’Din for her fallen clan.

Then the Veil twisted, and Líadan could feel it readying to sunder. Her sword thrummed with energy, taking in what it could from the Beyond. She turned to the children. “Get to the horses. Go straight there.”

Ava’s eyes had already been wide; she’d probably felt the change, too. Líadan took each of their hands and ran with them, pleading to Mythal that they could escape the camp before spirits from the Beyond began to hunt there. They managed to reach the horses, and Revas stood between them and the camp’s entrance as Líadan put the children in their saddles before she untied the horses. “Revas, take the lead to the trail. Cáel, Ava, follow her. I’m right behind you.”

All three did as they were told, without question or argument. By the time they neared the first bend, the Veil around them had thickened. Líadan took one last look at the destroyed Dalish camp behind them and saw countless numbers of crows landing to roost on the trees around it. Their cries followed them as Líadan switched with Revas and led their small party towards Kirkwall. They needed to reach the city. They needed to reach Merrill and be certain she was safe and alive.

Their ride along the Sundered Coast was quick, uninterrupted by enterprising bandits. Líadan brought them through the lone entrance by land, stopping long enough past the gates to have their horses stabled and supplies stowed with them. It cost an obscene amount of coin to assure the safety of their gear, but she had enough, and didn’t have the time to haggle. She had to find Merrill. She had to make sure that whatever had killed the Mahariel hadn’t taken Merrill. That she wasn’t the only one of her clan left alive.

The street from the city’s entrance dumped them into Lowtown, and Líadan did her best to navigate to the Alienage by using the harbor as a landmark. Cáel and Ava followed close behind, gawking at the buildings rising around them, while at the same time wrinkling their noses at the peculiar Lowtown smell. 

“Is that a real person hanging up there?” Ava asked as they passed the Hanged Man.

“No,” said Líadan. “Only a sign. That’s the name of the tavern. The Hanged Man.”

“Are there hanging men in there?” asked Cáel.

“I believe it’s a metaphor. Idiom? I don’t know. It’s a human term for being drunk, I think.”

“Maybe we should ask inside,” said Ava.

“We will.” Líadan had already made a note to herself about the Hanged Man’s location, so she could find it after she found Merrill, or if she didn’t find Merrill. Either way, Varric would know what to do. He might even know what’d happened at Sundermount. “After we find Merrill.”

Down another set of steps and she thought she could possibly see the tip of the Vhenadahl, and kept heading in that direction.

Then she halted and looked up sharply when she felt the gathering of energy, one she hadn’t felt in a long time, not without knowing the immediate source. Somewhere nearby, a templar was summoning a smite. Líadan’s eyes roved the area, searching for the templar while a cold knot of fear formed in her chest that the smite could be intended for her. But she was a Grey Warden. She was exempt. She was supposed to be left alone. She’d made sure to wear her cloak while—she hadn’t. Her cloak and other Warden armor were in storage, where she’d stabled the horses.

In the blindness of her grief, she’d forgotten to put on the cloak. She hadn’t considered what templars or other humans would assume if they saw a Dalish elf with two human children in tow. And the sword she wore on her hip still occasionally pulsed with the energy it had picked up at Sundermount, which meant the templars would feel it. They would _know_ she was a mage, even as her magic went unused. 

Líadan spun and crouched to Ava and Cáel’s level while Revas looked on. “I need you to run. No question. Run to—” As the pressure of the smite’s building energy filled her with urgency, she struggled to think of a place where they could go. “Go to the Hanged Man. Ask for Varric. Tell him who you are, that your mother was Merrill’s clanmate. Tell them the templars came after me. He’ll know what to do. He’ll protect you. Now, go.”

“Was? But—” Ava reached out a hand.

Cáel took it, always a child to recognize and not question deadly seriousness. “We have to go.” He pulled his sister by the arm and ran in the direction of the Hanged Man, up one of the many staircases in Lowtown. After giving Líadan a quick, concerned look, Revas understood her unspoken request, and bounded after them, ready to protect both children. 

Then Líadan took out her bow and strung it.

The two children and the mabari were turning the corner when the smite finally hit Líadan, driving her to the ground and stealing the scant magic she might have called on. Then the templars were out in the open, even jumping down from rooftops to surround her as they advanced.

They didn’t know she didn’t require magic to fight. It would be her advantage, until pure numbers overwhelmed her. Her sword could channel magic, but it didn’t need magic to be a sword. It would cut all the same. And before even that, they would have to dodge arrows shot by a Dalish hunter.

She nocked an arrow. “Do you realize I’m a Grey Warden?”

One of the templars scoffed. “Sure you are, missing all that fancy armor they wear. You’re an apostate, elf. Magic’s crawling all over you. You belong in the Gallows and we’re bringing you.”

“Then come get me.”

Her first arrow caught the closest templar in his unprotected throat. Her second and third arrows caught two more templars in the eye. Her fourth and fifth pierced through two more exposed throats. The rest closed in, too many and too fast, and she abandoned her bow for her blade, sword light and quick as she dispatched as many as she could. One dared to get within her reach, and she tripped him before she drove her blade through the gap in armor between his shoulder and arm. She twisted before she wrenched out her sword, assuring that he would be too busy bleeding to try attacking her again. She exploited every weakness she could find in the templars’ defenses, moving between them so quickly she couldn’t even see faces or bodies, only a blur of targets. Too soon, her lungs began to burn, her blows landed a hair slower, her legs lagged a step behind, and the templars pressed in. They overwhelmed her, robbing her of room to move, room to breathe. Still, she kept on, driven by instinct and desperation, knowing that the longer she held here, the better the chance her children had of escaping the Chantry’s hands.

Then she had no room left at all. Her blade was stripped from her hand. A hit to her shoulder drove her to one knee.

At least she’d taken out a good many of them before she died.

The hilt of a Sword of Mercy crashed into her skull. As she fell, darkness wrapping around her, she heard the one thing she did not want to hear.

“Mamae!” 

Shouts from both Cáel and Ava calling for her, terrified and afraid and they _weren’t supposed to be there_. They were supposed to be safe, and instead they were crying and yelling as they watched their mother fall to the templars. Revas’ barks and growls should have accompanied their cries, yet there were none.

After landing hard on her back on the paved stones of the Kirkwall plaza, she half-rolled toward her children, arm out, reaching through the encroaching shadows to help them. A templar’s boot stepped into her field of vision, followed by another. 

Then she saw nothing more.


	17. Chapter 17

“Passing out of the world, in that Void they shall wander;

O unrepentant, faithless, treacherous,

They who are judged and found wanting

Shall know forever the loss of the Maker’s love.

Only Our Lady shall weep for them.”

— _The Chant of Light_ , Threnodies 12:5

**Malcolm**

“You know what? I’ve about had it with you people,” Malcolm called out. As he continued to relay his rather long list of complaints to the pressgang who’d taken exception to their refusal to join up, he deflected one blow meant for Wynne, and then bound the blade of the man-at-arms who’d decided to attack Adrian. The bind brought him close as he stepped into it, and then his blade nicely followed through the parry to become a riposte. He stabbed the man through his leathers and into the gut. With that, Malcolm kicked him off his blade and turned his attention to the others.

From the looks of increasing frustration on his companions’ faces, Malcolm could tell they were as sick of it as he was. The skirmishes were never difficult ones to win—it was just that they took _time_ and therefore lengthened their already somewhat long trip. 

Wynne flicked her stave out and froze the soldier whom Malcolm had temporarily stunned, and Evangeline capitalized on it, using her sword to smash the soldier into pieces. Luckily, it wasn’t like her first time the day before, and she ducked the flying pieces of frozen flesh before they could stick to her armor as they defrosted. The mess they left behind otherwise was considerable, and it’d taken Evangeline the better part of two hours the night before to get everything out of the cloth parts of her armor.

“This really is annoying,” said Malcolm.

Finn sent a surge of healing Evangeline’s way before he shuddered at the sight of the half-frozen, shattered body scattered at their feet. “This is really _messy_. If you left it to us mages, combat would be a lot cleaner.”

“Also more painful for us,” said Rhys. “Hard to keep casting when some fool is waving their shield in your face. I’d rather let the folks in the armor deal with them.”

“I could just set them on fire,” said Adrian. “All of them.”

“You’d set everything on fire if you could,” said Evangeline.

“Well, not _you_ , Knight-Captain.”

Evangeline snorted. “Lying doesn’t become you. I’d be the first you’d light on fire.”

One of the last two soldiers took offense at the ugly demise of his compatriot, and glared at them from a decent distance, shifting his weight from foot to foot, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to exact revenge.

“Come on, then,” said Malcolm. “Attack or run. I don’t care which. Just decide.”

“I’m not sure I’m a fan of your continuing trend of goading our opponents,” said Rhys.

“I _know_ I’m not,” said Finn. “Be grateful it isn’t chevaliers this time.”

The only reason Malcolm didn’t roll his eyes was because he didn’t want to take his eyes off the undecided soldier, or lose track of the one who thought he was being sneaky in the trees. “I didn’t goad chevaliers. I goaded their lackeys.”

“You should stop goading altogether, lest you accidentally goad an actual chevalier into an actual duel,” said Evangeline.

Malcolm frowned. “I can see how that would be unfortunate.”

“I hope you mean unfortunate for you, and that you are not attempting to boast or express what would amount to overconfidence,” said Wynne.

“I’m almost insulted.” Almost, though, because Evangeline had explained to him, in great detail, the extensive training chevaliers went through. While Malcolm still didn’t like them, he did have to respect their training, especially if they’d taken to it. They learned every weapon and every technique for each. They also employed unarmed combat methods when called for, and learned the ability to switch between light and heavy armor with ease. It really did explain how Thierry was so damn good, since he’d been a chevalier before he’d joined the templars, and it made Malcolm quite relieved that Thierry was on his side. It certainly gave him the motive to keep it that way.

“Besides,” he said to Wynne, “I’ll look for the yellow feather. If they’ve got a yellow feather, I’ll do my best to keep my mouth shut.”

“I doubt that will be enough,” said Adrian.

“Not that you’ve got much ground to stand on,” Rhys said to her.

Adrian rolled her eyes at the other mage, and at the same time, the indecisive soldier rushed at Malcolm.

Malcolm sighed and bashed him a couple of times until he hit the ground and didn’t rise. As he checked to make sure he wouldn’t be stabbing him in the back, out of the corner of his eye he saw a man nearly as tall as a qunari trying to hit Rhys with a two-handed war hammer—and it wasn’t the soldier they’d noticed in the trees, which meant they’d miscounted. Not the time to assign blame, however.

Malcolm dove between Rhys and the attacker to block him with the forceful application of his shield. He buckled the man’s knees, but the man continued the follow-through of his swing as he fell backward, and hit Malcolm in the head on his way down. 

It’d been a grazing blow rather than the solid hit, but he was more wobbly than he liked as he slowly got to his feet. The sluggishness that followed took a little too long to dissipate, but it did fade, and while he’d gotten up, Evangeline and the mages dealt with the rest of the overeager pressgang. Excellent. Not as much a delay as he’d thought, and it had at least warmed them up nicely from a dawn so chilly that they’d found a furry frost clinging to the grass.

He propped his shield against his leg, cleaned his blade and sheathed it, and then took off his helm to wipe the sweat from his forehead. By the time he’d dropped his arm, Rhys stood in front of him, peering at him intently.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Malcolm asked. He believed it a question to be asking, considering the look. Maker, Rhys looked like _Wynne_ right then.

Rhys didn’t answer. Well, he did, but it wasn’t a direct explanation. “What’s your name?”

“Oh, you _have_ to be kidding me.” And he had no one to appeal to, because the others were out of earshot as they gathered the horses and their supplies under Evangeline’s direction. Evangeline had thus far been the de facto leader of their little expedition, as her orders often brooked no argument. Since she’d been entirely reasonable and hadn’t yet asked anything of them that they already wouldn’t have done, they cooperated. Malcolm hoped it would continue that way, but he didn’t have high hopes for when they reached Adamant and discovered what Pharamond may have found.

“Just answer,” said Rhys.

“Malcolm.”

“Where are we?”

“Sodding Orlais, that’s where we are.”

“Who’s the Divine?”

“For Maker’s sake. It’s Justinia. The fifth of her name, if you want to get specific.” It wasn’t like Malcolm didn’t perfectly well know these types of questions. They were a very special set of questions healers used to determine just how badly someone had gotten their bell rung. But he hadn’t gotten hit terribly hard. No stars, hardly any ringing in his ears, and he already felt fine.

“Touch your finger to your nose.”

“I’m going to touch my fist to your face if you ask me more of your questions. I’m fine. I’ve taken worse hits.”

“You’re awfully irritable.”

“And getting more irritated by the second. What’s given you the impression that my brain fell out of my head halfway through the Frostbacks? There’d be more drooling, I think, if it had.”

Rhys ran his fingers through his short beard and then sighed. “The last time I saw you, you easily could’ve ended up that way, drooling with your mind lost in the Frostbacks or Andraste knows where.” As Malcolm gave him a startled look, Rhys nudged the helm at Malcolm’s feet. “I helped heal the head injury you got from some nasty templars in Denerim some years ago.”

He frowned. “First, how would you even know about that injury? Second, Wynne’s the one who healed it. I know, because she gave me an earful when I woke up the second time and almost undid her work.”

“The Seekers brought me in to help.”

“That would explain why you seem to know things that you shouldn’t. It also would’ve been nice for you to mention it.”

Rhys quirked an eyebrow. “Because you’ve mentioned who you are?”

The rest of the group was still preoccupied with the horses, so Malcolm didn’t end the conversation, not that he wanted to in the first place. “Right, because that would be a grand idea out here. Are you sure I’m the one who got hit in the head?”

“You’re welcome,” said Rhys. He sounded smug about it, too.

Sodding healers. What got him was that he couldn’t be ungrateful, because he’d have been dead several times over if not for them. “And you’re welcome for taking that war hammer to my helmed head instead of letting it hit your bare one.”

“Yes, thanks for that. But, next time, if you’ve a choice about which body part you’re going to use to block an incoming blow, pick something other than your head.” As Malcolm gave him a questioning look, Rhys reached out, a healing spell glowing on his fingers, and moved his hand around Malcolm’s head. Then the healing magic winked out and Rhys looked Malcolm in the eye. “Stop getting hit in the head. I’m serious. Unless you want to end up the drooling dullard you alluded to, you need to stop.”

“Anders told me that, too. So did Wynne. Considering my line of work, I’ve done fairly well at avoiding blows to the head over the past several years.” And he had. The Blight had definitely been the high for number of times he got hit in the head over the course of a year. He’d even kept avoiding sparring with Cauthrien, even though she could teach him more than a thing or two. However, he’d decided, with her agreement, that it wouldn’t be worth risking the potential head injuries.

“Did she tell you why?” asked Rhys.

Malcolm gave him a curious look. “You mean other than the obvious?”

Rhys scowled at the reply. “I can’t believe she didn’t tell you, because maybe if you _knew_ what could happen, you’d try harder to avoid it.”

“You sound awfully angry and ungrateful that I took a hit in your stead.”

He threw up his hands and strode away from Malcolm. On his way to his horse, Rhys briefly took Wynne by the arm and told her to tell Malcolm what could happen. Malcolm knew Rhys had told her to because he’d heard Rhys, and because Wynne walked straight for him. 

“What haven’t you told me?” Malcolm asked once Wynne was close enough.

She sighed, suddenly looking at once tired for all the years the spirit had sustained her. “Ride with me at the rear of the group, and I will tell you.” Then she went for her horse, leaving Malcolm to get on his own. Knight-Captain Evangeline had already mounted her horse and taken the lead once more. Rhys, Adrian, and Finn rode behind her, while Malcolm and Wynne slowly took up the rear guard.

For a little while, Wynne said nothing, but Malcolm could tell she was working her way up to saying something she didn’t want to. He took the time to enjoy the ride, because the countryside in Orlais was rather pretty in autumn, especially now that they were diverting from the main roads. The nasty glares they’d gotten from the city guards outside Val Royeaux hadn’t been so pretty, but one could only hope for so much in Orlais. The rain had at least passed for the morning, though Malcolm could see low-hanging storm clouds waiting above the trees. He looked forward to it. Something about the freezing rain made him feel at home, and judging from the contented look Wynne got on her face with the inclement weather, she felt the same way. The rest of their party did not, including Finn, whom Malcolm was starting to believe might actually be an Orlesian. He did his best not to hold it against him.

With her eyes pinned on the road ahead, Wynne finally started to speak. “There is a kind of illness I have seen many times in knights, men-at-arms, career soldiers, and even some templars. If they sustained many significant blows to the head over the course of their lives, some are stricken by a peculiar sort of wasting illness. The body becomes weak, like any wasting illness. But unlike other wasting illnesses, there is a tremor, and the mind disintegrates as the body does. Often, the mind shows the first signs. It strikes earlier than the typical dementia of the elderly, around Rhys’ age instead of a person older than myself.”

The thought of losing himself to the fog of unknowing left him treading in the frigid water of fear. Rhys was right. He would’ve tried even harder to keep from getting hit in the head. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

She lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug. “You may not have lived long enough for it to affect you, given the taint. Or, if it did, it would have appeared as a sign for your Calling. But Hildur told me of the amalgamated potion, and how your lives are no longer cut cruelly short. I have been remiss in not telling you sooner, and for that, I am sorry.”

He knew she was. Wynne was many things, but she was never a woman not to tell someone when and how and why not to hurt themselves. A tiny bit of bitterness dwelled in him over it, but that was it. He was more worried, instead. “Is it already too late?”

“I do not believe so, especially since you have avoided head injuries over the past several years.”

Malcolm felt more than a little pride in that he’d been right. “See, I told you,” he called up at Rhys.

In return, Rhys made a rude gesture with his hand behind his back.

Malcolm laughed. Wynne’s son had thus far proven to be all right, even though he was older and a lot more dashing than Malcolm had thought he’d be.

“However,” Wynne said a a little sharply, “it is not out of the realm of possibility, especially if you do not exercise caution. The more blows your head absorbs, the higher the risk becomes.”

And the proverbial wind went out of his sails. “I take it that can’t be healed?”

She slowly shook her head. “No. The workings of the mind, of the person you are and the personality you possess, it is a delicate, complicated thing beyond even the most advanced magic. An injury itself can be fixed early on. But the longer it goes without healing, the greater the chance that some of the damage will remain—even if all appears to be well.”

“And the time Rhys helped you?”

“You had gone hours without aid, with easily the worst hit you have ever taken, and by far the longest you’d gone without a healer’s attention. Had it been much longer, I doubt we could have fully healed you.”

Malcolm hadn’t known it’d been that close. He’d known it was bad, just not to that extent.

Wynne nudged her horse to ride shoulder to shoulder with Malcolm’s, and then leaned over and ruffled his hair. He assumed it was to make him feel better or to remind him that he hadn’t put his helm back on. Or both. 

Still, it wasn’t something a grown man could easily bear. “You ruffled my hair! You _ruffled_ my _hair_! I’d thought that after all these years with you not having done it that you wouldn’t. But, no. Lull me into a false sense of security, and then you do that!”

Her only answer was to chuckle, and the chuckles from the rest of the party ahead of them did not help at all.

The next morning brought yet another pressgang, and Malcolm wondered why they’d bothered at all to avoid the cities and main roads if they’d had to put up with this shit regardless. If they were going to fight every day, it was better to eat and rest at an inn. Their group was well-funded, so they could easily afford the luxury.

“Tell me again why we avoided Val Foret?” Malcolm asked Ser Evangeline as he rode next to her.

The way she flexed her jaw before she answered told Malcolm that she knew what he was getting at, but wouldn’t concede. “The rumors of riot that others travelers have been discussing whenever we pass them, for one. Best not to be caught up in a riot. More distressing is the rumor of civil war. As you’ve seen, the nobility involved tend to like pressing peasants into service, and so we avoid the main roads to keep from being forced into said service.”

“Given how many people we’ve run into who want to volunteer us, it doesn’t seem to be working.”

“Once a day is a low number, Warden-Lieutenant.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is it now? I suppose a party consisting mostly of mages would be an enticing target. Wynne even went through that before we got to Val Royeaux. Finn, too, both right outside Jader. They cared nothing for me. Shows what they know, ignoring a Grey Warden’s probable contributions.”

“I suspect they didn’t think it worth the trade-off,” said Wynne.

Malcolm didn’t reply. It only encouraged her.

“What did you say?” Evangeline asked him.

“Oh, the incident outside Jader? Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons’ men decided they’d like a couple mages for the Grand Duke’s army. Wynne and Finn said no. His men had a temper tantrum, and then we went on our merry way. Stayed at a lovely inn that night, too.”

“Somehow, I’m thinking there’s a lot missing from that little story of yours,” said Rhys.

“So, you three have known there’s been a civil war in the making?” asked Adrian, who sounded rightfully somewhat annoyed. “Why didn’t you mention it to anyone before? Such as in Val Royeaux, where the information would have been of some use?”

Malcolm shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe because we’re Fereldan? Yes, probably because we’re Fereldan. Fight amongst yourselves all you like. It means it’s less likely you’ll try to take over my country again.” And he had somewhat of a personal stake in Orlesians not conquering Ferelden.

“I thought Grey Wardens were supposed to be neutral.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not still Fereldan.”

“You _look_ Fereldan.”

He turned to look at her. “Just what are you saying?”

“It’s the nose, I think,” she said after a moment of consideration.

Malcolm nearly rolled his eyes. “Like I haven’t heard that one before.”

Even though their effort in avoiding notice from the overeager officers under the nobility had yet to prove they worked, Evangeline insisted they continue to sleep outside, in the forests lining the roads. Rain-swollen clouds had built up on the horizon over the course of the day, and as they finished setting up the last of the tents, the clouds moved over them and started in with a cold drizzle. Malcolm was almost disappointed. He’d thought for sure the clouds would’ve had at least one downpour in them. Nevertheless, the Orlesians in the group, along with Finn, scowled at the plummeting temperature combined with the light rain. 

When he saw Evangeline struggling to make a sustained fire—even the help of mages couldn’t easily defeat water dousing flames—Malcolm joined her. Líadan had taught him long ago how he could keep a fire going in almost even the heaviest rain. To his surprise, Evangeline didn’t begrudge the help, and paid close attention to the steps he told her as he worked. They were rewarded with a warm fire, and then they were nearly overrun with mages trying to huddle close.

Evangeline sat back a little, gathering her damp cloak around herself as she basked in the warmth put off by the fire, yet kept herself from getting too close to the mages.

Not liking the implications of it, for Evangeline seemed to be distancing herself an awful lot over the past few days, he strove to keep her engaged. “So,” he said to her, “we’re trying to keep a low profile, aren’t we?”

Her eyes never wavered from the fire, but she did at least respond. “Yes.” 

Malcolm looked pointedly at Evangeline’s cloak and then back to her face. “That cloak of yours isn’t very good for hiding.”

“You would not just throw away your Warden cloak, would you?”

“Mine’s _grey_. Well, more muddy grey and wet and a bit funky smelling from the rain, but still a far sight better at blending in than your not mud-spattered-enough scarlet one. I mean, scarlet. _Scarlet_.”

She sighed. “I meant as a barrier to the cold.”

“I suppose not, no.” He liked the relative cold well enough, but he wasn’t stupid. Not wearing his woolen cloak would practically guarantee hypothermia overnight.

She lifted an eyebrow at him. “And if a native Fereldan finds the weather cold enough to warrant a cloak, do you not think an Orlesian would find it even more so?”

“Oh, well played, Ser Templar.” Evangeline was turning out to be way more a fun sport than he’d believed an Orlesian templar could be, his friendship with Thierry not withstanding. “You’d think any of you would be more grateful at being outside that Spire of yours, considering you’ve got a ghost problem there. The ghost problem that everyone seemed to be discussing, but no one doing anything about. It could be a demon, for all any of you care.”

“No!” Rhys looked up from where he’d been jotting notes in a journal while cowering under his cloak in an attempt to avoid the rain. “Could it be?”

Malcolm scowled. “A simple yes would’ve done nicely.” There had to be some sort of class healers took to be this _way_ they all were. “Why are all spirit healers so…” he trailed off as he searched for a better word.

“Cutting?” asked Adrian. “Derisive? Sharp?”

“Yes, those.” It seemed Adrian had also garnered disfavor from the healers.

“I can’t imagine it hasn’t anything to do with those whom we end up healing,” said Rhys.

“No,” Wynne said from the other side of the fire, “I imagine it does.”

“It does,” Finn said from inside his tent.

“See, there you go again.” Malcolm pointed a finger at each healer in turn, including Finn in his tent. “No teaming up. It isn’t fair. We have only the Maker to thank that Anders isn’t here.” Malcolm’s thoughts had been of the Anders he’d known right after the Blight, not the Justice-inhabited man he’d spoken with weeks ago. The old Anders would’ve fit right in with the joking around, been right in his element, templar escort aside. Then again, Knight-Captain Evangeline hadn’t been so bad thus far, for a templar. She’d remained steadfast in her ability to act and appear reasonable, like Cullen had become, and Carver had turned out to be. _Maker_. He couldn’t believe he’d thought _that_ about _Carver_. He’d have to wash his mind out with soap, once he figured out how to do it.

“Malcolm,” Wynne said in a particular way of hers that warned of a coming interrogation she would believe to be on the sly, “I’ve been wondering. Why did Anders leave the Wardens? I thought the organization would suit him, given his propensity for escaping from the Tower. Also because had he not become a Grey Warden, I believe he would have been made Tranquil. Far better his talents were put to good use instead of wasted.”

Malcolm had long believed the same as Wynne when it came to Anders, and largely, he still did—of Anders without Justice. But it was becoming clearer that one now did not exist without the other, and together, the two of them were something entirely different. “He left for… personal reasons.” It sounded weak, even to him, but it was all he could rightly say in this sort of company. There wasn’t much he could do to make it sound better. “He tried to return once, but then the Warden-Commander at Ostwick made him give away his cat. He left for good after that.”

“I heard he took in a demon and became an abomination,” said Finn.

And there went that attempt at keeping Anders’ condition uncommon knowledge. Malcolm did nothing to hold in his sigh. “It wasn’t a demon.” At least, Malcolm was fairly certain Justice hadn’t been and wasn’t a demon, but whatever Justice and Anders were combining to become certainly carried many traits found in demons. “The last time I saw him, he wasn’t an abomination. Not yet.” The nasty part after the yet was far closer to happening than was safe, but those who hadn’t known Anders as the person separate from Justice, those who hadn’t been his friend from before, would never truly understand the sadness of what would happen after the yet had passed.

“Not yet?” asked Rhys. “How does that even work?”

_Ask your mother_ , Malcolm thought, but did not say out loud, because Wynne would do something very nasty to him if he did, and that was only if the templar Knight-Captain sitting nearby didn’t do something to Wynne first. “It was a spirit of Justice. And, well, Kirkwall’s got a lot of injustice, as you’ve probably heard, and between that and Anders’ human emotions, Justice is turning into something more akin to Vengeance. He takes over sometimes. I saw it. Pretty scary, but not like an actual abomination, with the twisted body and such. He gets all glowy and blue and his voice changes. Becomes very stern and declarative. I don’t recommend pissing him off anymore. Stopped being fun.”

For the first time in the miserable, cold evening, Adrian perked up. “You piss off mages often?”

Malcolm grinned, the amusing memories more warming than the fire. “You have _no_ idea.”

Wynne chuckled quietly to herself, but offered no explanation when looks from others asked for one.

“Oh,” Adrian said after a moment. “You’re a Grey Warden, which means you’ve been around mages more than most. Tell me, what do the Wardens think of mages?”

“We love them.” Malcolm wanted to thank the Maker that Adrian had asked an easy question, in comparison to the hundred other highly complicated questions she could’ve asked. “Highly effective against darkspawn, and very good at healing us after battles. Truly, they’re indispensable. I doubt the Wardens could’ve existed this long without them.”

Adrian briefly slid a look over at Evangeline before her next question. “What about blood magic?”

Back to the hard questions, which meant back to playing dumb. “What about it?”

She gritted her teeth at his less-than-helpful response. “Do the Wardens allow it?”

And here he’d gotten the impression that she was smart. He glanced pointedly at Evangeline before he said to Adrian, “I couldn’t tell you either way.”

Good job they hadn’t spoken frankly about blood magic, because it turned out Evangeline had been paying attention, after all. She frowned first at the fire and then the two of them. “It’s long been rumored that the Wardens allow the practice of blood magic, but not once has the Order gained evidence.” She looked directly at Malcolm. “Grey Wardens have their pick from Circle mages and apostates, do they not?”

“So my Warden-Commander tells me, yes.” 

“Then one would assume there would be no need to recruit from the ranks of the Tranquil. Why the interest in this experiment at Adamant?”

He glanced over at Wynne, who nodded, and with permission given, Malcolm returned to Evangeline. “Think about it. If Tranquility could be reversed, the Wardens have a lot bigger of a recruit pool—contrary to what non-Wardens may believe, we always, _always_ need more recruits, especially mages. Now, from what I’ve heard from some mages, being a Warden is a lot better than being Tranquil. Or dead.” He tilted his head to the side, as if he’d only just realized it. “Actually, mostly the Tranquil part, considering.” He didn’t say that by ‘most mages,’ he meant every single mage he’d met, ever. And that those mages whom he was closest to had vehemently expressed their wish for death over remaining Tranquil. While he knew the Chantry made young adults Tranquil if they wouldn’t go through a Harrowing, and sometimes did the same with captured apostates, he had no idea if they would do the same with a wildly strong mage child. Not just a mage child with extraordinary potential, but one possessing of an ability so powerful that it drew demons immediately, and so rare that an entire Age could pass without one appearing.

Malcolm couldn’t imagine Ava being made Tranquil. His mind tried, but his heart forced him to think of other things before the image could fully form. If it happened, he wasn’t sure what he would do, or what he was supposed to do. The adult mages had explicitly told him what to do: kill them. While he had trouble seeing himself killing any of them, especially Líadan, he couldn’t rightly deny their freedom to choose their own deaths, not when their autonomy and personhood had been stripped away. But Ava was a child. She was _six_. Six-year-olds should only have to worry about comebacks to their brother’s teasing or tracking mud indoors or evading adults when it was bathtime. No six-year-old should have to worry about, or Maker forbid, be forced to _choose_ between Tranquility or death.

“Would you make me a Warden?” Adrian asked.

He started at the question, having fallen too deep within his thoughts to stay aware of his surroundings. Given his company, it wasn’t the best time to become distracted. “No.”

“You could conscript me, and the Chantry couldn’t do anything about it.”

The Chantry could do plenty about it, but she didn’t need to know what an awful mess it would be. Sure, the Wardens would eventually win, but without a Blight or Thaw going on, the price was generally too high. “I’m not conscripting anyone.”

Her eyes flashed with frustration, and then gave way to irritation. “Why—”

“You have no idea what you’re asking.” No one ever did, and the Wardens preferred to keep it that way. Otherwise, they’d have practically no volunteers. “I know what you’re asking. Unless you’re facing dire circumstances, it isn’t worth it.”

“But—”

“I would advise you to let it go,” Wynne said as she stood up. “Grey Wardens tend to get obstinate when pressured about joining their order. People do not choose the Wardens; the Wardens choose them.”

It sounded so dreadfully serious the way Wynne said it, and the looks of the others on him were only more uncomfortable. “Besides,” he said, wanting to turn their eyes away from him or at least lighten them, “it’s boring, anyway. There aren’t even any griffons to make up for it.”

Wynne sighed. “I’m of a mind to get out that griffon book of yours and hit you with it.”

“Go for it.” She wouldn’t hit him, he believed. Well, she might hit him, but not hard enough to do any lasting damage. He hoped. After all, she was always telling him to stop getting hurt, so she’d have to be some kind of hypocrite to dole out the damage, herself.

At the same time, Finn specifically came out from his tent to say, “It isn’t his book. He stole it.”

Rhys raised his eyebrows. “Thief, are you?”

“Oh, for Maker’s sake.” He didn’t even bother to roll his eyes at Rhys. Instead, he turned to Wynne. “Did you want a book? Not necessarily the griffon one, but take it if you want it, as long as you don’t hit me.”

“I did finish the ones I brought with me. You brought others?”

Malcolm motioned toward his pack. “Get whatever you need. I apologize in advance for the socks, but don’t say you weren’t warned.” She nodded and stepped over to rummage through it, while he settled back on the damp grass and thought of home. 

He’d nearly drifted off when Wynne said, “Malcolm?”

His eyes remained closed. “Hm?”

“Are you aware that you have a stuffed spider in here?”

He sat up quicker than he liked, considering his observant company. “Yes.”

Wynne paused to study him before asking, “Why?”

Like he wanted to discuss the _real_ reason why he was carrying around a stuffed animal. Insect. Bug. Creature. Whatever. Besides, it wasn’t like Wynne wouldn’t know to whom the spider belonged, because she’d seen it enough times in Ava’s arms to know damn well. “To help me get over my fear of them,” he said out loud.

“Of spiders?” Adrian asked, incredulous about a Warden being afraid of an arachnid. She obviously had not had any run-ins with the giant varieties of them, because when one did, the fear of them was not a thing to be questioned.

“No, stuffed toys.” Malcolm finally did roll his eyes. “Neither, actually. I’m holding it for someone.”

Adrian gave him a flat look. “Really.”

“It isn’t like it’s standard Warden issue. So, yes, _really_.”

She crossed her arms, looking so smug that she reminded him of… Wynne, actually. “Who are you holding it for, then?”

He didn’t really want to answer, but sooner or later, the topic would come up, especially when the others figured out who he was. He just hoped they wouldn’t pry too much. Not with a templar amongst them, along with Wynne the Aequitarian who apparently was best friends with the Divine or something absurd like that. “My daughter,” he said to Adrian, the humor gone from his voice, “for when I see her again.”

Evangeline and Adrian both looked rather surprised at the newly revealed detail, but it was Adrian who spoke first. “When you go home after this?”

“I hope so.” He didn’t think so, but he had to hold onto a little.

“Why would—”

“Let it go, Adrian,” Rhys said quietly, though the request came out nearly a command. Adrian snapped her head around to question him, but Rhys explained before it could be asked. “If he wanted to tell you about any family he has, he’d tell you without your probing. We’ve all heard that Grey Wardens have it harder than most, so don’t go digging where you might uncover something that should’ve stayed buried.”

Behind Rhys, Evangeline silently nodded her agreement.

Adrian huffed, but dropped the subject.

Wynne gave him a long, inquisitive look, which Malcolm pretended to ignore. He wasn’t going to open up to Wynne, which she seemed to believe he needed to do. It would just invite more of her grousing about Líadan when she didn’t have the entire truth. Better to leave it alone, except that their friendly relaxing around the fire had gotten terribly awkward.

“I’ve been wondering something, Warden,” said Evangeline.

Rhys gave Evangeline the same look of dread Malcolm did, but Malcolm addressed her first. “I’m afraid to ask, but what have you been wondering?” He could only pray—not even hope—that Evangeline intended to lighten the mood. Otherwise, things were going to get a lot darker than any of them could have foreseen.

She gestured over her shoulder, toward where the horses were picketed. “Knock. That’s a curious name for a horse.”

He smiled. “Another Warden named him before anyone else could. His idea of a joke.” And he would never, ever openly tell Oghren that he’d found the joke genuinely funny. Ever.

Adrian stared at him. “You can’t just leave it at that.”

“I could.”

“Oh, come on,” said Rhys. “Tell.”

Malcolm sighed. “The pony kept in the stall next to Knock’s is named Boot.”

Rhys and Adrian immediately started snickering, while Evangeline barely muffled a chuckle of her own. Finn frowned at the others, and then at Malcolm. “Not getting it,” he said. “Someone fill me in.”

“Oh, no, I’m not telling you. It was the Circle’s job to educate you on such things, not mine. So, if any of you Circle people would like to fix the gap in his education, feel free.”

“Short for ‘knocking boots,’ I believe,” said Wynne, her own amusement showing. Malcolm knew she wasn’t laughing at the name and Oghren’s joke. Oh, no. She was laughing because _she_ knew who was the pony’s rider: Malcolm’s own son. Awkward hadn’t even begun to describe it when Cáel found out. 

When Wynne went to describe in further detail, Finn waved her off. “I get it now. I get it.”

No one brought up the uncomfortable moment from earlier, and they certainly didn’t mention the stuffed animal.

Malcolm dreamed about his family that night, dreamed until it turned into one of the nightmares that had plagued him since the White Spire. The fires chased him out of his sleep, and the caws of crows chased him from his tent into the cold rain that filled the twilight before dawn. Or it could’ve been dawn already, for all he could tell with the dark, cloudy skies. Evangeline was already up and awake and ready, like every other Chantry servant Malcolm had come to know. It was strangely reassuring seeing the behavior, since the cheerful early rising was a trait he well knew of friends and family. Irritating, sure, but it was nice to be reminded of people from home. 

“You’re up early,” said Evangeline. “Usually, someone has to poke you with a stick.”

“Bad dreams,” he said.

“You had those at the White Spire.”

He still couldn’t understand why or how Chantry people could be so astute this early in the day. “I did, yes. Wardens tend to have nasty dreams.”

“Wynne mentioned that. She told me not to be alarmed.”

“Yes, well. Keep being unalarmed. And don’t think this is a trend, either, getting up early. I didn’t do it on purpose.” To his knowledge, he never had, but it was far too early to be certain of anything he thought. Ser Evangeline turned out to possess some kindness, because she left him alone as the rain and clouds continued to veil the sun. That mercy alone endeared her to him a little. Every other Chantry or former Chantry he knew took great glee in messing with him this early in the day.

The climate was not so merciful. It kept raining. Overnight, the temperatures would drop, leaving thin films of ice over anything left outside a tent, including the tents themselves. After two more days of it, and yet another storm looming when they finally entered Velun, Wynne had a brilliant suggestion.

“I suggest we overnight at an inn,” she said. “A real one. We’re tired and cold and even I would like to not be waterlogged or frozen.”

“Oh, being dry. I remember that.” Malcolm stroked his chin in imitation of his brother in deep thought. “I think it was last year. Maybe the year before. It’s been so long.”

Finn stared dismally at his clothes. “My robes will never be clean again. I can’t bear to look at them.”

“Then close your eyes,” said Evangeline.

Finn made a face at her as the others laughed quietly. Adrian was the only one who didn’t, but that was because she was already striding right for the inn’s entrance. The calculated look in Evangeline’s’ eyes sharpened, and then became mixed with concern as she noted Adrian’s progress. Then she passed another look over their surroundings before turning to the others. “As a warning, there could be friction with the inn’s other patrons. This area isn’t known for their fondness of mages.”

“Wonderful,” said Rhys. “And here I’d assumed we’d get a warm welcome.” Except Rhys’ tone said exactly the opposite. 

Malcolm understood. Mages rarely got friendly welcomes. Most times that they did, it was because someone needed a healer, and by and large, that was when prejudice went out the window. Funny how that always seemed to happen when people were actively bleeding.

True to Evangeline’s word, when they entered the inn, all eyes immediately went to them. They stared, taking in everything in the party that marked them as ‘other’—Evangeline’s armor, the staves the mages carried, their robes. Malcolm wasn’t exempt from the scrutiny due to the Warden griffon sigils on his armor and cloak, but the looks toward him were more sullen curiosity than, well, loathing the mages got. Evangeline and Wynne arranged for food and lodging, and as they all made their way to an open table, Malcolm heard mutters and whispers of slurs used against mages. He hadn’t heard them much at all before he’d come to Orlais. While he wanted to believe it was because Ferelden was more open-minded, he believed it had a lot more to do with the people with whom he kept company. Either they were people already predisposed to tolerate or like mages, or they were polite within his earshot because they knew his wife happened to be one.

For once, he was actually grateful that she wasn’t there, because she wouldn’t have let the comments pass, and there would’ve been a fight—and he would’ve joined right in—and they wouldn’t be able to have the wine and hot stew and proper chairs at a proper table instead of balancing bowls on their knees. And, again, the wine was quite nice. Better than much of what he’d have gotten in Ferelden.

Despite the fineness of the wine, Wynne ordered dwarven ale the moment she found out the inn had it in stock.

Malcolm was tempted to call her on showing off, but Adrian beat him to it by challenging Wynne to a drinking contest of sorts, which forced Malcolm to take Wynne’s side by encouraging caution. His advice went unheeded.

“Your pyre,” he said to her. Maker, even Oghren refused to challenge Wynne. But these people didn’t know who Oghren was, not _really_ , which made it pointless to bring him into it. And there’d already been enough details about his life that’d been mentioned, enough that anyone who lived outside the White Spire and had half a brain would’ve put it together by now who he was. He wanted to refrain from mentioning more details as much as he could.

Overall, he was fine with it until Wynne got a little buzz and became chatty about the Blight. The people around them were already paying too much attention to their small party, and Malcolm really didn’t want the people he was traveling with to really know who he was, because it would be awkward, and there would be questions about things he didn’t want to think about, much less talk about.

Which meant that Wynne started talking about the Archdemon and dragons, and everyone seemed to love the dragons. The only people who didn’t like dragons were the people who fought them. He, personally, did not like dragons at all, especially the Archdemon. Who, according to the all-knowing Wynne, had no match on Thedas other than Grey Wardens.

Malcolm groaned and put his head on the table. If Wynne kept it up, he was going to start asking about griffons.

“So, you traveled with the Heroes of Ferelden?” Adrian asked Wynne, sounding remarkably lucid considering the quantity of dwarven ale she’d consumed.

“I did.” Wynne nodded, her movements still smooth and controlled, the only hint of her possible inebriation being the slight, _slight_ blush on her cheeks. Possibly also the cattiness, but she could’ve been using the possible drunkenness as an excuse to gossip. “After they aided us at the Circle.”

He was regretting that, now. Definitely regretting.

“I’ll be right back,” Evangeline said quietly as she stood. “I need to ask the innkeeper something.”

When Adrian switched her attention to Malcolm, he despaired. “What about you, Warden? Did you know the Wardens who fought the Archdemon?”

He didn’t bother lifting his head. “Sort of.”

“Stop talking to the table, dear. It’s bad manners,” Wynne said to him.

In his opinion, getting somewhat hammered and showing off one’s ability to consume significant quantities of dwarven ale and _not die_ was bad manners. Not that he said it.

“What’s the deal with griffons?” Rhys asked. “I’ve always wondered.”

Malcolm lifted his head and gave the other man a slight smile. “You should ask your mother about that. She loves to tell stories about griffons.”

Wynne glared at him. Malcolm didn’t have to even look to confirm, not when she said, “I do not! So help me, if you ask me about griffons one more time, you will not live to see the Maker’s mercy.”

The comment set Adrian to giggling, and Rhys and Finn weren’t far behind. Malcolm was happy that they were far enough into their cups that maybe they wouldn’t get terribly curious about how Wynne knew him so well. Or, if they did, they wouldn’t remember. When Evangeline returned to her seat, Malcolm realized she stood the best chance of noticing. He’d taken note that she’d only sipped her wine, and that pretty much nothing escaped her notice, which made him really wonder what she’d spoken to the innkeeper about.

The door to the inn slammed inward, and a group of big men in pieced-together armor clattered through, crowing about some sort of victory, shouting at the innkeeper for drinks, and tracking mud everywhere as they kept the door open, letting more freezing rain blow into the large room. A large room that _had_ been warm, which meant Malcolm glared at them for taking it away.

Initially, it seemed like they wanted to challenge him, but their eyes dropped to notice the griffons, and they shrugged him off and returned to their carousing.

“We finally got that last spellbind,” the balding man with the fringe of brown hair said to the innkeeper. “Gave us a right good game of hide and seek as she ran. Some of the men didn’t want to do it, said she was too young, still a child. But a robe is a robe, I say, and as soon as they can sling fire and ice at you, they’re fair game. The mage burned our crops, and she had to pay.”

“Made it quick, though,” added the man beside him. “No need for more suffering.”

Malcolm was struck by the sudden and immediate urge to possibly kill those men. He gripped his mug tightly, using it as an anchor to the table to keep himself from drawing attention to their group. Then he looked over at Evangeline, who was supposed to be the mages’ protector. His raised eyebrow served to silently ask her what she planned to do to the group of men who were celebrating having killed a child mage, because if they could so easily kill a _child_ , then doing the same to adults wouldn’t bother them at all. But that was tangential, since they’d killed a child. What was really screwed up about the entire thing—aside from the obvious—was that no one else in the tavern seemed troubled by it.

He flexed his free hand, but then resorted to holding his cup with both hands.

“No,” Evangeline said to him. “Not yet. Not if we can avoid it.”

He did his absolute best to ignore the wild anger surging up at the image of the dead mage child being _his_ child, and he knew he was failing when Evangeline briefly broke away from assessing the rowdy group to give him a wary look. He knew he was doubly failing when Wynne gave him a remarkably clear-eyed and concerned look. Malcolm ignored it, his concentration on visualizing anything but his daughter being the mage those men had killed, and he had no success whatsoever. 

As the Knight-Captain averted her attention, Malcolm started to stand. Adrian stood up at the same time, and they exchanged brief nods of tacit solidarity. She’d channeled her anger, as well—into magic. It coalesced over her hand as she headed for the men monopolizing the innkeeper. Rhys was a few steps behind her. Wynne was the only holdout, electing to stand only to put her hand over Malcolm’s as he went for his sword.

“You can’t kill them all,” she whispered to him, managing to get a note of scolding into it, “no matter how much they deserve it for their crime.”

He glared down at her. “In case you didn’t pick up on it, they don’t think they’ve even committed a crime at all. I’ll just have to educate them about their ignorance.”

“The research waiting at Adamant is more important right now. The child is regretfully already dead. There is nothing we can do for her.”

“I’m inventive. Pretty sure I can come up with something.”

Wynne still didn’t let go, and Malcolm was reluctant to use force. While he was a lot bigger than she was, she’d also not been drained by a smite, and could have easily petrified him if she’d chosen to. And there was no way he’d smite her himself, not in this situation. There were risks, and there were _risks_.

Adrian bounced her tiny ball of flame deftly from finger to finger as she drew within striking distance of the leader.

“Oh, look, it’s another!” he said. “And this one’s all grown up!”

“What gave it away?” asked Rhys, who sounded very different from the man Malcolm had traveled with thus far, a hard undertone lent to his voice that Malcolm hadn’t heard before. “The fire in her hand, perhaps?”

While half the man’s gaggle of would-be mage hunters cowered, the leader remained steadfast as he stared at Adrian’s flame. Then his face twisted into a sneer. “Every mage should be executed the moment it’s discovered they’re a mage.” He pointed a finger shaking with outrage at Adrian. “It’s the only way your curse will be cut from the face of the Maker’s creation.”

“How about I burn your face off, instead?” asked Adrian.

The mage’s version of a punch to the face. Malcolm approved, yet hoped she didn’t actually burn the man’s face off. Not because he particularly cared about the man, but because he wouldn’t be able to get any hits of his own in. Maybe Adrian would opt for a good old punch.

When Evangeline leapt up and drained Adrian of magic faster than Malcolm could even fathom that Adrian hadn’t summoned her fire just for kicks, he realized Adrian had every intention of using said fire on their antagonizer, and then probably set fire to the entire inn.

He really did try to care about the other mage-killer-approving patrons of the tavern. Really.

At first, the man seemed glad that Evangeline had intervened, even throwing a nod of respect in her direction. Then when Evangeline stepped in between the man and his magic-less quarry, his dark look turned onto her. “You let me past, templar,” he said. “This is between the robes and me. You have nothing to do with this.”

“They are under my guard. I protect them from you as much as I protect you from them.”

The man snarled and tried to shove past Evangeline, but she shoved him back, into his crowd of friends. 

The rest of the tavern started in with their own shouts. Malcolm finally shook off Wynne’s restraining hand, probably a little too roughly, but she wouldn’t sodding let go. Then he took his first step toward the group at the bar. When most of the inn’s patrons were up and closing in on Evangeline and the gathered mages, Malcolm drew his sword. The group that’d killed the child mage needed ass-kicking, anyway. Possibly more, and he didn’t mind providing either one.

“You protecting the robes, Warden?” someone called to him.

Malcolm rolled his eyes. That just couldn’t be a serious question. “No, I just thought I’d draw my sword for the fun of it. Of course I am, you dolts. I came in with them. I intend to leave with them, alive and unharmed.”

For a single moment, as the man seemed to mull over Malcolm’s words, Malcolm believed the kindling fight might be snuffed out. Then the man said, “You should be on our side, Warden. It’s mages who made those darkspawn you fight. If people back then had done the right thing, we’d have no blights. Spellbinds are nothing more than sick animals needing to be culled, and that’s what we did tonight: the Maker’s work.”

The images hurtled forward in his mind, seeing not only his daughter slain by this man’s hands, but Líadan, as well. Dead on a street or field somewhere, killed by those doing the Maker’s work. His fingers clenched around the grip of his sword, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw some patrons back away, pressing against walls, putting tables in between themselves and Malcolm and the mages. “I’ll show you the Maker’s work,” Malcolm said, needing to drive out the brightly burning images that only became more gruesome the more he tried to ignore them. The man had to be stopped from doing his ‘Maker’s work’ ever again, so that no one else’s child would be so savagely taken from their parents and stripped of their very lives.

“Is that so?” The heavily muscled man hefted the war hammer he’d yet to put away. Judging by his overly-developed shoulders, this man was probably one of the town’s blacksmiths. Most likely, he was able to forge weapons, and less likely to be formally trained in wielding them. “You’re as bad as them, standing up for them like you are. You should get the same as the robes. I guess it’s up to me to put you down like a rabid dog.” He’d be strong, though. Lots of painful brute force if Malcolm couldn’t sidestep his blows, not that it was of particular concern. He had on armor and the other guy didn’t.

Both Malcolm and the blacksmith started for each other while the rest of the tavern shouted their support for the smith. Malcolm didn’t care. A glyph of protection flared to life underneath him. It felt like Wynne’s magic, and he’d have shot her a confused, questioning look if it didn’t mean his eyes leaving the smith.

Malcolm advanced to where he could lunge with his sword to reach the smith, yet was far enough away that the smith’s hammer would fall short. The smith was astute enough an observer to realize he lacked similar reach, and lacked the necessary training required to overcome that deficit. Sweat tracked through the dirt and soot caked on his skin as his hazel eyes flicked between Malcolm’s sword and Malcolm’s determined face.

“What?” asked Malcolm. “The child-killer’s afraid of a grown man? Color me surprised.”

The smith straightened as his reticence fled and his scowl returned. “She burned our crops right before the harvest!

“She was a child.” Even if the girl had burned the town’s crops, it would’ve been an accident. An adult might’ve done it on purpose, but it was rare for a child outside the Circle to have that level of control. It also would’ve taken a lot of power, given how damp the fields were from all the rain.

“Not like a normal child, not as a mage.” Disgust darkly twisted the features of the smith’s face. “She had to be taken care of before she hurt more people.”

“Killing them isn’t how you care for a child!” Malcolm could feel his temper getting away from him in a way it hadn’t in a long time, but it had been a child. It was everyone else who was in remiss for not being as outraged as he was.

“Not a child. A mage. A robe. A spellbind. Call it like it is!” The smith loosened his grip on the hammer enough to hold it by the end of the handle, and then he used it to point toward Malcolm. “And you’re defending them like the dog-lord you are, Fereldan. No one here should be surprised, coming from a backwards country that lets their royal family consort with mages, even marry—”

Malcolm lunged.

A hand wearing a heavy leather glove caught the blade of the sword during his extension, and then twisted it just enough to bring him to a halt. At the same time, the person’s other hand had grabbed and held the smith’s hammer by the head. Then the Chantry sister interposed herself between them. 

“Gentlemen,” said the red-headed woman, “surely there is no need for trouble. These mages and their companions are no doubt some poor travelers seeking refuge from the storm.”

He knew that voice. He knew those words. He’d heard those words _spoken_ before, in a place much like this one. This Chantry sister wasn’t a mere sister assigned to a town’s small chantry. No. 

It was Leliana.

Either that, or he was hallucinating. He preferred the hallucination.

“There will be if they don’t leave,” someone said from the crowd. “Robes, bucket, and dog-lord Warden alike.”

“We will leave, Sister,” said Evangeline. She tossed a small pouch of coins on their table, and then motioned her group toward the door. “Immediately.”

Leliana stared down Malcolm and the blacksmith, daring either of them to disagree. The smith dropped his guard and retreated, and while Malcolm still wanted to fight, Leliana’s appearance had rendered him too shocked to act on it. Even so, Wynne once again put a hand on his forearm, this time with enough force behind it to be a clear warning.

Then Leliana slipped out the door behind Evangeline, Adrian, and Rhys. Malcolm gaped at it, and then at Wynne as she released his arm.

“What’s she doing here?” he asked. Since Wynne was now best friends with the Divine, she’d have a chance to know better than any of them.

“How would I know?” Wynne asked.

“Since you’re both besties with the Divine, I figured you would.”

She didn’t answer, which, really, was all the answer he needed. It told him that she knew, and he wasn’t sure which thought unsettled him more: a woman returned from the dead, or a woman he’d trusted becoming anything but.

“Thank you for the glyph,” he said after a quiet moment.

She paused in the doorway. “You are welcome.” 

After another dark look shot at the blacksmith, he stepped through the door after her and into the freezing rain of the Orlesian night.


	18. Chapter 18

“As a bard, you are welcome anywhere in Orlais. Doors are opened to you with generous smiles, their wearers confident that no one would falsely pretend such a title for fear of retribution. Your slightest request is immediately seen to. Your services are expensive and yet actively sought, and those who cannot afford them beg only to not have your displeasure turn their way.

One day, however, you will awaken. You will realize the smiles are false, and behind them lies revenge. At the first moment of weakness, your brother and sister bards will be unleashed upon you like a pack of hounds, and you will realize they are not your brothers and sisters at all. For all your fancy intrigue, you have spent your life creating nothing of worth. You have been swallowed by the web of your own deceits, and the Game of which you believe yourself a master? It moves on without you, uncaring.”

—from a letter signed _Sister Nightingale_

**Malcolm**

Because his mind hurt to believe it, he pretended Leliana wasn’t there. It made it easier as she trailed after them, concern painted over her features in a way that was uncomfortably convincing. 

He didn’t want to be convinced.

Cold and miserable, the small party led the horses as they hiked out into the forest to camp where they would be hidden from the angry inhabitants of Velun. Their group wasn’t short on their own anger, however. Rhys took up a pace to match Evangeline’s as he confronted her, taking the energy he’d wanted to use to forcibly educate the blacksmith about the errors of his ways and placing it on the Knight-Captain. Adrian contented with glaring at Evangeline from under her hood. Both mages from the White Spire were so focused on Evangeline that they didn’t even ask about Leliana, even though she’d brazenly followed them while leading her own horse.

Malcolm was fairly certain they weren’t ignoring her on purpose like he was.

The arguing and nasty looks continued as they set up soggy tents on sodden ground. Right after she’d introduced herself as ‘Sister Nightingale,’ Leliana had grabbed a pack from her horse, and not so randomly yet officially joined their little group. The freezing rain had lightened to a cold mist, but it did nothing to help them keep the chill at bay. Adding in that having the chance to sleep in warm beds had been ripped away from them did little to improve their moods—mages, templars, and Wardens alike.

Rhys kicked at a tent stake before he scowled at Evangeline again. “Why did you even bother? It isn’t like you’re going to let us leave Adamant alive if we find that Tranquility isn’t permanent. More than likely, the Lord Seeker has ordered you to kill us either way.”

“Did he?” asked Adrian.

“I’m not at liberty to divulge my orders,” said Evangeline. Her tent was already perfectly set up behind her, because of course it was.

“Oh, so you _are_ going to kill us,” said Rhys. “Wonderful.”

Malcolm abandoned his hopeless task of making his tent appear as anything beyond passable and looked over at Evangeline. “I hope you know that I won’t let you do that.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Is that a boast?”

“No.”

“Malcolm,” said Wynne.

He sighed, and certainly did not look in Wynne’s direction. “All right, maybe a little one.”

“Why do you even care?” asked Adrian. 

“Because I give a shit about mages, obviously, or I wouldn’t have sodding stuck up for any of you in that tavern.” He could’ve just left them in the tavern, or he could’ve ignored the entire situation, taken his mead, and left them to their confrontation while he got a head start on resting in a warm, cozy room. Or he could’ve just put the man down for the atrocity he’d committed, disregarding the mages’ need to keep a low profile. Instead, he’d defended them, because they were people just like any other—and that smith and his cohorts had sodding killed a _child_ simply because she was a mage—and now he was out here in the cold rain, defending himself from the mages.

“Only because we’re part of your little Warden mission.” Adrian lashed out at stray piece of wood with her foot. “All you Wardens care about is what mages can do to darkspawn and what abilities we can use to help stop blights. You don’t care about the people they are or how their lives are on Thedas. The only reason you’re even bothering with this highly important research in the first place is so you can get more recruits for your order.” She jabbed a finger at him. “Giving a shit about mages means you don’t think of them as tools to be used by your stupid order.”

He stared at her for a moment as his frustration worked its way up out of his chest. Then the anger broke free, unwilling to be restrained any longer. “My mother was a mage,” he said to her, not knowing where his explanation was going, aside from laying out why he felt the way he felt. “The first woman I ever loved was a mage. My wife is a mage. My daughter is a mage, so don’t you dare assume anything about what I think about mages.”

Adrian stared at him.

“Oh, Malcolm, I’m sorry,” said Wynne.

“So am I,” he said, and then walked out of the camp. He needed to clear his head before he ended up doing something harmful to the person who kept needling him. While he was frustrated with her, she didn’t deserve it, not to the extent his temper had taken him. That smith from the tavern deserved it, or any number of members of the templars and Seekers. 

He’d been stupid in letting his temper get away from him, because he’d mentioned Ava while in the presence of a very observant templar, not to mention the even more observant and could not truly be ignored so-called Sister Nightingale. As much as he would’ve liked Shale to be wrong, she was right. There was no possible way they could finish their entire mission without the whole group finding out who he really was, and now they would know even more than they should once they did.

The flickering light from the small fire was still visible when he realized he’d been followed. When he turned and found it was Leliana, somehow already having changed into leathers, he pointed at her and said, “No.” She opened her mouth to object or reason with him, but he cut her off. “No. I can’t deal with you right now. I can’t.” Because Maker’s sodding balls, Leliana had just heard everything he’d said and he had absolutely no idea what she would do with the information. The possibilities were too many and too dangerous. Added to the rage—no, it was mostly fear—simmering in his chest, he couldn’t handle it.

“I wanted to say—”

Malcolm shook his head. “I don’t want to hear whatever it is you have to say. My friend Leliana died during the Blight. You, you look an awful lot like her, _Sister Nightingale_ , but you are not her. You wear her face and speak with her voice, but you aren’t my friend. Nothing you say to me will be of any comfort.” Then he faced the trees, the cold clouding his breath in front of him.

A very long silence followed. When he turned to look, she had gone. 

It took only moments for Wynne to take her place. Without asking, she’d come to stand right next to him, so close that the sharp smell of the warmth balm she’d applied to her hands wafted over him.

He bit down on the confrontational words he wanted to snap at her, because they had a great deal of their trip left to go, and the overall goal of the mission was a lot more important than his undermined trust. That, and he wasn’t sure he had the energy left to expend on pretending Leliana wasn’t there, and keep himself from going back to that sodding inn and punishing that blacksmith. 

So, he kept quiet.

“I am…” Wynne sighed. “I am sorry about you and Líadan. I hadn’t told you that before, and I realize my error. I had honestly not seen her departure coming, yet learning about Ava must have been difficult for the both of you. Too difficult, it would seem.”

Oh, she was here to lecture instead of comfort. He could deal with lectures, because since he’d inadvertently told their little group about Ava’s not-so-little ability, he could finally tell the rest of the truth. That someone else would know that he and Líadan _weren’t_ at odds, that they still loved each other and would be together if they had any way possible of doing so while keeping their children safe, made him feel somewhat better. Better than he’d been in the past couple of days, at least. Enough that he smiled, despite the subject. “Líadan and I are fine, actually. I mean, it was touch and go for a while after we first found out, but we worked through it.”

Malcolm could practically hear the shift of judgmental gears in Wynne’s head. “Then the rumors of her leaving you, taking the children, and returning to the Dalish?”

“Started and allowed to perpetuate on purpose.” Maker, why did it feel so freeing? He knew he should be trying to keep it a secret still, especially since he didn’t know where Leliana was except for close and possibly listening in. But, in the end, if he couldn’t trust any of these people with the secret of Ava being a mage and Líadan bringing her and Cáel to safety, then he could never even contemplate telling anyone about Ava’s true ability. He’d been astonished to discover earlier that he could still trust them—or at least Wynne—with his life. Wynne’s glyph had been evidence enough.

“What?”

“We couldn’t allow it to get out that we sent our mage daughter to stay with the Dalish to keep her from the Chantry, could we?” He looked over at her and raised an eyebrow. “Right?”

Her lips pursed and her frown was quick to follow. “You know better than that.”

He ignored her clear disapproval. “Than what, exactly?”

“Mages cannot go untrained. To keep Ava from the Circle and proper training—or have you forgotten about what happened to Connor?”

“Connor was very much on my mind when we decided what to do.”

Her robe rustled as she crossed her arms, not even pretending she was trying to keep warm in order to cover the extent of her disapproval. No, not even that. She disapproved, and it seemed she would make him know every detail of it. “Then I fail to understand—”

He finally turned to fully face her. “There was no way under the Maker’s sun that we were going to give her to the Chantry. Yet, we both knew that a mage can’t go without good, proper training. It’s dangerous, and stupid. The Dalish will provide training as well as safe harbor from the templars.”

The frown remained, intractable against reason that was not her own. “You are risking—”

“I know what we’re risking.”

She huffed. “Does Alistair know?”

“Of course he does. Thing is, we never expected it to appear. Not with Ava. We assumed it would be Cáel, but he still doesn’t show any signs. And since Ava showed so young, we doubt he’ll ever turn out to be a mage.” He flashed her a fake smile. “But don’t you worry about Ava being with the Dalish. I hear they’re pretty good about training mages.” 

Wynne’s lips pursed again, and Malcolm recognized the signs of her not letting a subject drop—she usually didn’t like any subject to drop—and spun it around on her. 

While continuing to ignore Leliana’s presence would’ve been wonderful, it’d been childish to ignore it in the first place, and dangerous for him to keep doing it. “Have you noticed that we’ve two agents of the Divine with us? At least, I assume that’s what you are too, given the letter you had and how you’re apparently all cozy with Her Perfection.” He crossed his own arms to mirror Wynne’s rather defensive posture. “How long have you been friends with Sister Nightingale?”

“As long as you have.”

“She’s not Leliana. Not the one we knew.”

“Once, I would have agreed with you. Now, I do not. She’s the same woman we knew during the Blight. She’s followed her path to the Maker, and continues to follow it still, whatever that path may be. While we may not see her path, it doesn’t negate the fact that it is present for her. She shared her view of it with me, and I even agree with some of it. I have rendered my aid as a result, and it is she and her sponsor who have allowed this research on reversing Tranquility to be done. Think on that before you’re so quick to condemn her.”

No, he didn’t want to. Not right then. “And by ‘her sponsor,’ of course you mean the Divine.”

She gave him that infuriatingly enigmatic smile once again. “Perhaps.”

As he seethed, she walked away as quietly as she’d appeared. It made him almost wish for Leliana. For all of Leliana’s being a bard, their confrontation had held a lot more honesty.

He stayed out in the woods beyond the camp while he waited for the rest of their little traveling party to fall asleep. Confrontations could be saved for the morning, when he’d given his mind a night of sleep to regroup. It was that or he was going out to find that blacksmith. 

The rain had stopped. There was that.

When he returned to camp, Evangeline was still awake. On watch and extra vigilant, she’d placed her sword across her knees as she stared out into the night. Before Malcolm could say anything, she said, “The others may not have put the pieces together, but I know who you are, Malcolm Theirin.”

He’d have traded the rain stopping for Evangeline not being so observant and clever. “If you could keep it to yourself, that would be nice.” And he really, really hoped that she would turn out to be the decent sort of templar he’d believed her to be. Otherwise, he’d inadvertently put his family in a lot of danger when the entire _point_ of this separation was to keep them out of it.

She studied her blade for a moment before raising an eyebrow at him. “Why keep it a secret?” 

Her tone held only curiosity, which provided a little relief, so he provided an answer. “Not a secret, not exactly.” He shrugged and then gestured toward the trees around them. “I’m just a Grey Warden out here. People knowing about everything else tends to complicate things.”

As she ran her thumb over the pommel of her blade, tracing the engraving of the Chantry’s symbol, her eyes became wistful. “I can understand that. I left the nobility to become a templar. It is uncomfortable to be reminded. My father’s holdings were close to here.”

That _did_ explain how she’d quickly and confidently known there would be trouble with the mages here. “Were?”

“After my parents died, I was offered the opportunity to leave the Order and assume my position in the nobility by taking over the estates. I turned it down. It was then given to my uncle, who promptly gambled everything away.”

“That sort of happened to a friend of mine. Her ending was more fun, though. She and her siblings and their friends cleared the family estate of the slavers who’d taken it over, got the city to grant the deed and title again, and there you go. I suppose where she lives, she’s lucky enough it isn’t as poncy as it is here in Orlais. She can still be a soldier and remain in the nobility, even though she’s a woman. She does tell me that other nobles look down on her all the same.” Of course, now she could tell them to suck it. Marian would technically soon be a princess. Or she was one already, because even if Sebastian wasn’t yet Prince of Starkhaven, he was still a prince. “Either way, it’s a way bigger deal there or here than it is at home.”

“That is a notion I have been struggling with since I put it together. For instance, Enchanter Wynne is one of your brother’s subjects, and yet she treats you as she would a grandson, not a prince of her realm.”

He outright grinned. “She treats my brother the same, actually.”

“I will never get used to it.”

“Good thing you don’t have to.”

When she didn’t reply and only returned to her scans of the woods, Malcolm figured it was as good a time as any to ask the no bullshit kind of question. She knew who he was, so she’d know who his daughter was, and stood a very good chance of starting the Chantry’s search for his family. “You know about my daughter, then. Who she is.”

“I do.” She didn’t look away from the forest.

Because she wasn’t going to make this awkward part any less awkward if it ended up with her saying she’d be doing something and him having to kill her to stop her and then having to explain to their little group just how that had happened. “Will you tell me what you’re going to do? Or am I going to have to guess? I have to tell you, I’m terrible at guessing games.”

“Last I heard,” Evangeline said as she slowly turned to look at him, “your wife had taken both your children, presumably to the Dalish. Last time I checked, the Templar Order and the Chantry have a tacit agreement to leave Dalish clans alone, so long as they don’t stay around a human settlement for a substantial length of time. We do not actively hunt the Dalish clans, so why would I bother reporting about a mage with the Dalish?”

He met her gaze. “I hope you’re telling the truth.”

“And if I wasn’t?”

“Then you wouldn’t be the templar I think you are, and I’d have to stop you. Same as I’d do if you tried to kill any of the mages with us, by the way.”

“What about the Chantry sister?”

“She’s a special case.” He was mostly certain that Leliana wouldn’t tell the Chantry or the templars about Ava. For all her lies, she’d witnessed everything at Kinloch Hold during the Blight, and later, even after the Kinloch Hold, she had voiced a surprising amount of reason when it came to how mages should be treated. Whatever lies her mouth might tell, her actions tended more toward honesty. It didn’t mean he’d trust her, but some of her actions he could trust. Mostly.

“And you would know this, how?”

“Prior run-ins. Also, she used to be dead. But if you want more detail than that, you’ll have to ask her yourself.”

“Ah.” Evangeline nodded slowly. “ _Mauvais sang._ ” 

“Yes, exactly. Bad blood. A lot of it. Literally. Have fun getting the stories out of her.” He gave her a feigned smile and crawled into his tent before she could resume questioning him about Leliana. For all his attempts at ignoring her, she kept coming up a lot.

The next morning, as they started out of Velun along a disused trail, trembling ground and the squawk of a doomed bird heralded Shale’s appearance. She noticed right away that Leliana was with them, and she initially welcomed Leliana’s return even less than Malcolm had. “I see the elder mage has brought the sister,” she said as she tromped out of the trees.

While Evangeline, Rhys, and Adrian stared up at the golem, the rest carried on with their conversation.

“The sister brought herself,” Wynne said.

“Has the sister explained why?”

“The Maker guided me to them, to keep people from dying in a needless tavern brawl,” said Leliana.

Malcolm rolled his eyes instead of asking her why she felt the need to re-use the same damn story she’d used during the Blight. Maybe she’d had another dream too, complete with finding a rose alive where it should have been dead.

“Horseshit,” said Adrian. “We would have been fine.”

Leliana leveled a look at her. “I said ‘people,’ Enchanter. I did not specify you or your companions.”

“The sister is catty,” said Shale. “I like it. Has it brought me shoes?”

“Not yet, Shale. Perhaps after our journey.”

This time, Malcolm glared at her for saying ‘our journey,’ like she was an invited companion, trusted to help, trusted to not _pretend to die_ in the middle of it. But he had to settle for glaring, because he couldn’t say any of those things out loud.

Evangeline’s look had shifted from awe to appraising. “Can it be controlled?”

Shale cracked her stony knuckles. “Would it like a demonstration?”

“Unless you want to find yourself crushed, I’d say no,” said Malcolm.

After another look at Shale, Evangeline nodded, and then nudged her horse into a walk. Rhys followed, and quickly engaged her in conversation not loud enough for the rest of them to hear. It made Adrian frown a lot, which made Malcolm wonder what was going on there, but not stupid enough to inquire. Thankfully, Finn managed to stave off whatever was brewing by bringing up new spells with Adrian. Though often accompanied by quick bursts of magic as they tried out the spells Finn had found, their conversation quickly became amiable. Leliana chose to ride beside Shale almost immediately, and the two of them cheerfully chatted about shoes.

_Shoes_. Maker, no one had warned him he’d be suffering this sort of thing during their trip. It was starting to become clear that he should’ve stayed in Denerim, maybe even gone to Highever. His new realization was validated quickly, when Wynne pulled up beside him. Several minutes stretched on impossibly long as she said nothing, while Malcolm waited for the inevitable comments. They were coming, and she’d had all night to think up a stockpile.

She didn’t fail to meet his dreaded expectations. She did start out slowly, a comment lobbed here and there, perhaps only once or twice an hour as they traveled out of the verdant forests and meadows of the Heartlands and into the scrubby transition area to the Western Approach. She lobbed her first zinger right before they stopped to eat a midday meal.

“There’s something I learned very quickly in my life as a mage,” Wynne said, and then stopped to force him to engage.

Because he knew it would be worse if he didn’t engage at all, he played along. “Is there?” However, playing along didn’t mean he had to be enthusiastic about it, which he certainly was not, and his flat tone made it clear.

Wynne paid no mind to his tone; she never did, even when they were getting along. “Yes. What I learned was that for every apprentice in the tower, there was probably one who never even lived to see the templars come. No child, not even a mage child, is a match for an angry mob trying to place blame for a failed crop, a hard winter, a baby born dead. Sometimes, the mages in the Circle are the lucky ones.”

Malcolm ignored it, because that had been exactly the circumstance that’d led to the confrontation at the inn, and then rolled right into Leliana’s subsequent timely appearance. No need to give either of them more barbs to throw, because they didn’t need them. At all. While Wynne’s nagging slowly got to him, it turned out to be far easier to ignore than Leliana. She maintained her persona of a Chantry sister, which reminded Malcolm of the time during the Blight, and what’d happened, and of course that darkened his mood each time the thought crossed his mind. Which actually was a lot, because Leliana liked to talk, and did not relent in her attempts to get him to engage in conversation. Each time she disengaged from a conversation with someone else, she would try again with him.

She was good, he had to admit that. Her attempts were subtle enough that the rest of their group seemed to think it only a sister’s way of engaging a moody Warden in a more cheerful subject. Already, she’d gotten Adrian to be less grumpy toward Rhys—though it seemed nothing would get Adrian to relent in her glaring at Evangeline. As for the templar, Leliana had gotten her to smile on more than one occasion. She’d even managed to get on the good sides of both Rhys and Finn, and so her attempts to cheer him up looked like nothing out of character.

Malcolm, however, knew the truth of it. She wanted to talk about the Blight. She wanted to talk about Alistair. She wanted to talk about what she did and what she did not do and things like broken trust and duty to the Maker. He did not. He didn’t, because in the end, he couldn’t see how he could trust her. For Maker’s sake, if Morrigan randomly joined their rapidly not-so-little party, he wouldn’t be able to fully trust _her_. And because Wynne trusted Leliana—that still blew his mind—he wasn’t sure if he could trust Wynne anymore, either. All told, it left him awfully short on true allies out here.

At least he had Shale. Maybe. There were the shoes.

Most of all, he did not want to become the morose, sullen near-child he’d been for much of the Blight, and settled on a course of gallows humor. It was humor typically found in Wardens, and doled out in generous amounts.

If only Wynne didn’t make it so hard _not_ to shout in defense of his and Líadan’s decision about Ava and Cáel, because it wasn’t like it’d been easy.

The woodlands finished thinning out, leaving half-sized hangers-on of actual trees sloping into the arid beginnings of badlands—the outer edge of the Western Approach. The red rocks were afire in the light of the setting sun, and beyond, toward the horizon, everything was still. It was a clear warning, which they were going to ignore.

But not until the next morning.

The threat of the desert staring them in the face made for a quiet camp that night. Malcolm decided he preferred it, because chats would seem decidedly out of place. For once, he reveled in the quiet, not pressured in the slightest to fill it. During third watch, as he guarded the camp, he was happy enough to think about how Líadan would’ve appreciated it, how Cáel would respect the chance for nature to have its say, up until Ava reached the limits of her ability to keep still and quiet. Then, depending on if Ava’s fidgeting broke Cáel’s will first, or if Cáel’s moment of stillness compelled her to break it by breaking her brother, they would inevitably fall into bickering or tussling or both. Children were remarkably good at filling every available space with their energy, whether it be their tumultuous outrage or unhidden joy, leaving no room for quiet. When they were gone, along with Líadan’s small sighs of exasperation or the tiny, contented smile that secretly found its way out when she watched their children take glee in some new experience, the silence was louder than the noise preceding it.

When Leliana said from behind him, “You miss them,” Malcolm started enough to kick over his shield. He barely caught it in time to keep it from crashing loudly on a flat rock.

Because Leliana had once been his friend, because his memories had dulled his anger, and because Leliana’s question about his family had been the first in a while asked in a tone that conveyed sympathy without pity, he chose to answer her. “Yes,” he said as he leaned his shield against his knee.

“It is a fine tale that you have constructed.” Leliana stepped around to sit on the ground next to him, but far enough away that he did not tense up out of reflex. “Yet, I suspect it is not the truth.”

“Enough of it is.”

“You speak of the parts that hurt the most.”

For all it was a statement, it was also an inquiry. “Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.” 

“She did not leave you?”

He wanted to say, _of course she didn’t_ , but he’d already gone skating across the treacherous crust of the ice that formed over the currents in Lake Calenhad. One shift in the current, one upwelling of warmer water, and it would break apart, taking him with it. He said nothing.

Leliana spoke enough for both of them. “She did, in a way,” she said, her words presented as conjecture spoken to the night sky. “Yet not in the way the tales tell. She did not leave you after a nasty argument, no. You were together until the last moment, were you not? Until she had to leave, and you had to stay, but you shared those moments before to keep the flame of memory and the warmth of love alive until you could be together again.”

As Leliana had certainly intended, the memory of his last day with his wife, his last night with his wife, his last time with his family, flared so brightly in the front of his mind that he closed his eyes. 

He did not verbally acknowledge Leliana or the effect her words had on him.

She took his inaction as an indication for her to continue. “You do not know when you will see her again, I think,” she said. “Or when you will see your children again.”

Malcolm thought of the book he’d read before he’d fallen asleep earlier, the same book his son had read before he’d had to leave with his mother and sister. He thought of the much-loved stuffed toy in the bottom of his pack, carried in the hope that he’d be able to return it to his daughter. He thought about the Dalish ring he wore on his necklace, and the heirloom silver thread of a necklace that Líadan wore. He thought about answering Leliana, but that was as far as it went.

She finally reacted. “Are you not going to speak to me?”

He banished the thoughts as best he could, ready to engage again. “I’m speaking to you right now. We even exchanged a few civil sentences. See? Speaking. You’d think a bard would have a better grasp of the definition.”

“Silence does not become you.”

Now she sounded like Wynne, and that prodded at the banked embers of his irritation. “And to think, people used to tell me that running my mouth didn’t become me. Be nice if everyone made up their minds. Maybe you could ask the Divine for me, Sister. Or is it Seeker? I’m never sure which.”

“Whatever you might think, I remain the same friend you had all those years ago.”

He found his fingers tracing over the edge of his shield, and withdrew them. “This isn’t a conversation I want to have.”

“It needs to be had, Malcolm. We are going to be fighting alongside each other once more.”

“Fighting on the same side doesn’t mean we have to talk. Well, aside from, ‘Hey, there’s someone sneaking into your blind spot,’ or ‘Hey, there’s a trap,’ or ‘Hey, there’s a genlock trying to gnaw your arm off.’ Not that the last one would concern you, since you lived through that, along with, I don’t know, a knife to the heart. Remarkable, really, your ability to survive.”

She paused for a moment, her fingers wringing together a few times before she arrested the movement. “You are bitter. I understand that.”

“No, I’m not sure you do.” He wasn’t sure what he was. Confused and bitter were in there somewhere, but not as much as he’d thought.

“Each of us must find our own solace, either in the Maker’s light, the Maker’s teaching, or perhaps just in the Maker’s creations. Perhaps, as you wait, you can find your peace there.” 

When Malcolm glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, Leliana noticed. She pointed at Alindra’s bright navigational star, and then drew her finger down the river of Alindra’s tears to where it ended with her lover’s star, across the horizon.

For a bard, Leliana could be remarkably shortsighted at times. “I don’t think that’s the comparison you should go with,” he said to her without rancor. “Alindra can’t get to her soldier until she cries enough tears. It’s been a long time, and I suspect, a lot of tears, and yet they remain apart.” It was something he vehemently did _not_ want for himself and Líadan, not from the meaning of the story, and not from the further meaning Alistair had given it. “After you died, Alistair looked up at Alindra’s tears whenever he thought about you. He spent a lot of time studying that part of the sky.”

When a brief burst of hurt surged in Leliana’s eyes before she willed it away, Malcolm didn’t feel the triumph he thought he’d feel after a successful barb. Instead, he felt a twinge of empathy. He knew she was a good bard, a ridiculously good bard, but he began to believe she might have loved his brother. It didn’t change any of her actions, or how she’d hurt Alistair, or how he disagreed with her whole ‘following the Maker’s path’ bit, but he wasn’t unfamiliar with these sorts of situations. And now Alistair had strangely found a contended sort of happiness with his wife and children, and here Leliana was very much alone, with only her Maker and Andraste for company, still paying for what she’d done during the Blight. He couldn’t decide if he felt bad about it or not, or if she still deserved it. 

He spent the rest of his watch staring out into the darkness of the desert, while Leliana stared up at the night sky.

In the morning, the first thing Malcolm noted as they headed into the badlands was that the temperature hadn’t increased since they’d awakened at dawn. The second thing was that the wind picked up as soon as they saw the sun, and steadily increased in intensity as the morning drew on. The third thing was that Wynne did not let up, even after the break granted the previous night.

As they carefully navigated between red rocks worn smooth by the wind, Wynne took it upon herself to ride beside him. “You cannot hide the talent in a child any more than you can hide a blazing fire.”

Darkspawn. He needed to summon darkspawn so they could have a battle and Wynne could concentrate on something else. But darkspawn only seemed to interrupt conversations between himself and Alistair, and so no darkspawn appeared. Like holes in the ground to swallow you up, darkspawn never seemed to materialize when they were needed.

“It needs to be watched and tended to,” Wynne continued, “that it may burn brightly, but safely.” She sharpened her tone, piercing at his reluctance to acknowledge her. “You don’t throw a rug over it, or shut it in a closet, trying to smother it. It will flare up when you least expect it.”

He sighed. “I get the point, you know. You can stop anytime.”

“No. I don’t believe so. Not until you take responsibility.”

Malcolm gritted his teeth and rode to the front of the line, before he did or said something he’d regret to a friend he still, somehow, considered dear. He and Líadan had taken responsibility, and they were paying for it in ways never imagined.

“Is there a reason she keeps harping on you about mages needing training?” Adrian asked as he slowed to ride next to her and Rhys.

“Yes.”

“You aren’t going to tell me, are you?”

“Not right now, no.”

“My guess,” said Rhys, “is that he’ll probably yell. And for once, my dear Adrian, you are not the person who deserves to be yelled at.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “So you know what’s going on?”

“In a way.”

_In a way_. Malcolm outwardly pretended at a realization. “You sound like your mother.”

Instead of reacting defensively, Rhys just chuckled.

Which, really, only proved Malcolm’s point. At this rate, he was starting to think that maybe he should hear Leliana out. Then like she’d read his mind—a possibility he wouldn’t discount after the past few days—she came riding up beside him, flashing that Chantry sister smile of hers.

But their chances for conversation became slim as they traveled deeper into the badlands, past lonely, gnarled, twisted trees hugging the ground, bowed into eternal submission by the wind. Then there were the arches carved by the elements through the red rocks jutting out of the sand, and then the rocks themselves channeled the howling winds over them, subjecting them to the same obeisance as the scraggly trees. Each one of them had dismounted, deciding that leading their horses through the maze would be safer. The horses didn’t seem terribly thrilled about their situation either way.

“I thought it would be different,” Malcolm said as they passed under one of the arches, bending forward to keep the wind from toppling them over and backward.

“What did you expect?” asked Leliana.

“Sand dunes. For it not to be so cold. Less wind. A lot less wind. You not to be here.”

“There will be less forceful wind once we’re out of the badlands.”

“Not sure if you’ve noticed, but this whole place is the badlands. Because they’re bad, and they’re lands. Aptly named, if you ask me.”

Her tone lightened, and he could hear the melody of her amusement. “Then once we get to the badlands _sans_ rocks, where the iron towers and sand dunes start, the wind should calm a little with nothing left to channel it.”

“And if it doesn’t?” He remembered the part about the tall, rusted iron towers from the book Hildur had sent with him. No one remembered who it was, either the Wardens or the Orlesians, but one of them had placed the towers to mark the path through the Approach to Adamant. If it was safe to continue on to the next tower, you’d be able to see it from the one you currently stood under. If you couldn’t see it, you waited until you could, otherwise you’d die, blinded and misled by the sands.

“Then we shall end up scoured clean,” said Leliana.

“Better than stripping naked and bounding through Andraste’s magical flames, praying that your bits won’t be burned off,” he muttered.

Leliana laughed quietly, and it didn’t irritate him like he thought it would.

They didn’t reach the first tower until the light had already started to fade, and Evangeline declared it best they wait until dawn to continue onward. Remains of wards set by ancient Wardens were still etched under the rust on the towers, and those wards, even weakened as they were, would aid in protection overnight, when they didn’t have the cloak of the blowing sand.

“Why,” Adrian said after she accidentally brushed against the tower and her robe came away with a large streak of rust flakes across it, “is there a path in this Maker-forsaken place at all?” 

“Without a path that can withstand the wind, travelers would die, for one,” said Malcolm. “And the Wardens needed the path marked because Adamant’s on the lip of the Abyssal Rift, on the south side of the Approach. Before you ask about why a fortress exists in such a horrible location, it was the guard against the darkspawn that would come climbing out of the chasm. Once the darkspawn stopped coming out, the Wardens stayed for a while, but then like most other Warden fortresses, it was abandoned between blights.”

Adrian’s eyes flicked over to look south, to approximately where the Abyssal Rift waited. “If the rest of your order abandoned it, why are you going back?”

“Because my Warden-Commander told me to.” Hildur would’ve preened with that one, especially because he’d meant it.

Adrian spun to look at him. “And you always do what you’re told?”

He laughed, and provided no other answer. 

After a wasted moment trying to glare him into talking, Adrian switched her focus to Wynne. “Why is your Tranquil friend there?”

“It’s far from the rest of civilization, which made it the safest place available for conducting his experiments. Primarily, however, because the Veil is thin there.”

“That’s reassuring,” said Rhys.

“That is _never_ reassuring,” said Finn.

The first night in the Western Approach wasn’t as bad as Malcolm thought it’d be. The wind falling entirely still at sundown creeped him out more than a little, and it left the others as jumpy as he was. After a day filled with constant wind, it felt downright unnatural to switch to nothing at all so quickly. Then again, it wasn’t a natural place. It hadn’t been since the Second Blight.

The next afternoon, his darkspawn finally showed their faces, far too late to be of any help to him in avoiding Wynne’s comments. He’d felt the faintest slither of the taint along his skin, but had mostly attributed it to being close to the Rift. 

Then Evangeline squinted into the distance. “What’s up there?”

“Where?”

She pointed at a long ridge of worn red rock, thrust up from the ground near the lip of the Rift. “There.”

And there, blurred by the distance and blowing sand between them, stood the reason for the taint creeping at the edge of his consciousness. But even looking didn’t strengthen his ability to sense them, so there couldn’t have been too many to be a terrible concern. “Just darkspawn.”

Rhys gave him an incredulous look. “ _Just_ darkspawn?”

“Welcome to traveling with Grey Wardens,” said Wynne.

“Should we prepare for an attack?” asked Evangeline.

He started to say no. Then the shapes stilled and one turned to look directly at him. Even from this distance, with the whipping sand between them, Malcolm could recognize an Alpha hurlock. Big, ugly one, and he could practically feel a sneer from him through the taint.

Malcolm shrugged and tried to play off the encounter for the benefit of his companions. He didn’t need them alarmed for the whole afternoon, not while they were still relatively safe due to the combination of wind and sand. “Not now, no. But we really need to be at a tower and prepared by nightfall.” The majority of the darkspawn had to be down in the chasm, furiously digging. If they were attacked, it would only be by a skirmish party on a minor foray. As long as they were ready, it was nothing a group like the one he was in couldn’t handle, not with this many talented mages. The key was being ready.

However, since the rest weren’t Wardens, they didn’t share in his feigned calm when it came to being stalked by darkspawn. The others noticed darkspawn scouts two or three times, when there was a gap in the blowing sand. Malcolm didn’t tell them about the ones they’d missed because they weren’t Wardens, because it would only confirm their fear that they were literally being stalked. Even though he knew the raiding party wasn’t a large one, the sand left them blind, lending freedom to fear.

Out in the middle of the desert instead of at a tower, they were largely unprotected, and very not ready. They had to get to a tower, and the one in front of them never seemed to get closer, no matter how fast they went. As the afternoon closed in on evening, Malcolm couldn’t feign ease any longer, not when he could feel the darkspawn creeping in, not when they still hadn’t reached the tower and the sun was nearly below the horizon. 

“Ride as fast and as hard as you can for the tower!” he shouted at the others. “They’re coming!”

Despite the lashing sand, they urged their horses to speed up, rushing to beat the setting sun before the wind dropped the cloak of sand and revealed them to their hunters. The darkspawn crept closer, using the shield of sand against the human party, the sand they believed protected them. “Cast wards!” Malcolm drew his sword. “Do it now! Now!” 

“The tower’s right there!” Finn yelled.

Faint snarls and guttural growls came from somewhere near them—the darkspawn were everywhere except within their sight. The sun finally descended below the distant ridges of the Gamordan Peaks, draping the desert in fading twilight. The sand around them glittered in the strange glow until a shriek burst through and slammed into Rhys, knocking him off his horse and through the curtain of sand. He hadn’t even had time to scream.

“Rhys!” Evangeline shouted, echoed by Wynne and Adrian.

“Shit,” said Malcolm. “Get to the tower! Now! Go!”

Wynne, Leliana, and Finn immediately did as he’d told them, bolting for the safety of the tower and its wards. Evangeline and Adrian did not. “What about Rhys?” asked Adrian.

“I’ll get him!” He didn’t have time to explain that he didn’t have to worry about becoming tainted. The others were smart. They’d work it out. They just had to get to the sodding tower. “You, go! Shale, make them if you have to!” Without looking to confirm that they’d followed instructions, Malcolm let go of his reins, grabbed his shield, and flung himself from his horse. Knock was trained well; he’d follow the other horses to safety.

As he hit the ground and rolled to his feet, the wind stilled. The sand drifted down with him, blanketing everything. Rhys quickly shook it off as he grappled with the shriek. Both of them were on the ground, the shriek appearing unharmed, but Rhys with a long gash down his side. Malcolm tried to run over, but the sand scrabbled at his boots, slowing his steps.

The shriek let out its tooth-rattling scream, and then head butted Rhys. The mage’s arm went slack mid-cast and his body fell backward into the sand, the magic extinguished. Before the darkspawn could send Rhys permanently to the Fade by savaging the mage’s throat, Malcolm finished his hampered sprint and cut the shriek down. When he dropped to a knee to assess Rhys’ condition, the rest of the darkspawn jumped.

Malcolm fended them off with his shield as he grabbed the back of Rhys’ robes and dragged him toward the tower. Finn stayed back within the wards with Wynne and Adrian, and Evangeline stood between the trio of mages and the darkspawn. Leliana had drifted outward, toward the fringes of the twilight, where the darkspawn wouldn’t readily notice her.

“Get him,” Malcolm told Evangeline when he got close. “I can get the darkspawn.” At first, his declaration sounded better than it looked, because he’d gotten only a few steps away before he had to start back up one of the sand dunes, and hadn’t gone much farther before he slid back down when the sand shifted under him. The sand coursed down the dune, he went with it, flipped onto his back and it was all he could do to keep hold of his sword and shield. The sand slide dumped him in the hollow between two dunes. It kept catching at him as he tried to get to his feet, and he felt more like a wallowing bronto than a Grey Warden as he struggled. 

A hurlock popped over the top of the dune and bounded for him.

Then leather-gloved hands were pulling him to a stand as a bolt of ice shot out from Wynne’s stave and froze the hurlock. It pitched forward and slid down the dune as Malcolm had, skidding over Malcolm’s boots and bumping into the base of the next dune.

“Let’s go, Warden,” Leliana said as she steadied him. “You kill the darkspawn, yes? Just like old times.”

Immediately, his skin tingled from the edges of Wynne’s healing magic as she bolstered the unconscious Rhys, he could feel Shale’s lumbering steps through the ground, and when Leliana dropped away to hide herself again, he still instinctively knew where she was. It was vaguely unsettling how familiar it felt to fight alongside them again.

He’d been more right than he’d meant to be earlier with Leliana—aside from occasional warnings, they truly did not need to speak during battle.

So, he shattered the frozen hurlock with his sword, and then trudged back up the dune. He did, however, decide that he hated sand dunes. They were not fascinating; they were irritating.

Terrible start aside, he still believed their small group was skilled enough to deal with the raiding party. Malcolm, Wynne, Shale, and Leliana alone had fought together so much previously that the rhythms felt like they’d never stopped, and they fell back into them like the Blight had never ended. An arrow to an elbow or a dagger cutting a hamstring or a lob of ice sent a darkspawn’s way, and then Malcolm followed through with cuts or smashes or stabs, and Shale used her massive fists to crush any stragglers, all as easy as breathing. Too easy, Malcolm realized, because with an archer and a mage who knew his fighting style so well, in addition to all the extra training he’d done recently, along with an actual golem who loved to squish things, meant for some incredibly fast and effective killing of darkspawn. It took over his mind, and he could only think of this one task, granting him freedom of mind he couldn’t find outside battle.

Then there weren’t anymore darkspawn to kill. Malcolm pushed aside the body of a gutted hurlock and went looking for Leliana or Wynne’s next victim, only to find the darkspawn all dead.

He was slightly astonished. He remembered the Blight being a lot harder. Or had it been? Maybe it had just been because it lasted so long. Easy as their skirmish here had gone, Rhys had taken the first blow, and the others might have taken their own. He took off his helm and started walking back to where the others had gathered near the tower. “Everyone all right?” he asked as he got closer. “No one bitten? Anyone get any of their blood into an open wound? Swallow any?”

Finn retched. 

Malcolm gave him a conciliatory smile. “Sorry, but it’s been known to happen.” He put his arms and helm aside as he knelt next to Wynne, who was healing Rhys. She nodded at him and then motioned toward the healing wound on Rhys’ flank, her eyes just a little wider than usual.

She was worried. It made sense. Malcolm would’ve been worried in her situation, too. He gave Rhys another look, but didn’t feel any taint in him. Lucky, then. Very lucky. “He’s fine,” he said quietly to Wynne.

The worry retreated from her eyes, and she finished closing up the wounds. “It will be some time before he awakens,” she said as she and Adrian moved an unconscious Rhys into a more comfortable position. Then her attention turned to Malcolm. “You took the brunt of it after Rhys. You didn’t hit your head, did you?”

“No. I don’t even think I was scratched.” Which, really, was remarkable. 

“The insipid Warden has much improved in its technique since last I saw it fight the darkspawn,” said Shale. “I must admit, I am impressed with its progress.”

“All for you, Shale. All for you.” He’d had a lot of free time for practice, but he didn’t need to advertise it. Though, at this point, it was just Adrian who didn’t know. Evangeline and Rhys had spoken about it between themselves the day before, wondering how long it would take Adrian to figure it out. There was even a silver or two on the line regarding the outcome, and since it reminded Malcolm of traveling with Oghren and the old Anders, he was fine with keeping up the ruse.

Wynne surveyed the other members of their group. “And how is everyone else?”

“Filthy, but otherwise fine,” said Finn. 

Adrian attempted to dust off her robes, but quickly gave up and turned her attention to their handiwork. “I hadn’t thought it of you, but it would seem that some of the legends about Grey Wardens are true.”

Doing his best not to take her comment as an insult, he decided to be as nonchalant as she seemed to believe he was. He slowly glanced back at the scattered darkspawn bodies, and then toward Adrian. “That? That’s just from lots of practice. I think shaving is harder than that. All those planes and angles.”

She stared at him for a moment before she looked at Evangeline. “What he said earlier? I don’t think he was boasting.”

Well, he hadn’t been. But he’d refrained from pointing it out because Evangeline underestimating him would give him another advantage should she try to kill the mages with them.

Evangeline shrugged a shoulder in answer as she started to walk the perimeter the ancient glyphs set for the camp. Then she went to check on the horses Shale had gathered up. 

“Besides,” Malcolm said, desperately trying to avoid a confrontation _right then_ about Evangeline’s not-so-secret mission parameters, “that group didn’t even have an emissary. Those are the challenging ones.”

“Emissary?” asked Adrian.

“Darkspawn mage.”

“So…” Adrian’s brows drew together as she sat down next to the unconscious Rhys. “What do you do when they appear?”

“Smite them and _then_ kill them. There’s an extra step, and a lot of very bad things can happen during that extra step, like, say, a crushing prison.”

She shot right back up from where she’d just sat down. “You can smite? Are you a templar?” To demonstrate her anger, she stalked toward him, much as she had the smith at the tavern. Fire jumped from fingertip to fingertip, but Malcolm was mostly inured to such displays. Morrigan’s handiness with fire had seen to that, along with encounters with various dragons.

Yet, he still took a step backward, just in case. “Not a templar. I mean, yes, I know how to use a smite, but I’m no templar. There are former templars and initiates in the Wardens now, and they’ve taught some of us how to use their abilities against emissaries. That’s all.” 

From now on, he decided, he’d tell all mages he traveled with in the future that he had templar abilities, right at the outset. It would save a lot of confrontations, or at least the untimely ones.

“You don’t have to take lyrium to use those skills?” asked Adrian.

Evangeline started to voice her objection to the subject from where she was watering the horses, but Finn cut her off. “It’s a poorly kept secret, which means everyone knows it,” he said. “Any healer who’s aided a templar knows, and even if they didn’t, every healer knows that a body begins to rely on lyrium when it’s taken steadily over a period of time, and we _definitely_ know what the withdrawal symptoms are.”

She tucked away the dwarven-runed waterskin they used for the horses, gave her horse a good rub between his ears, and then said to them, “We are told we need lyrium to use our powers.”

“Well,” said Malcolm, “they lied.”

If the statement affected her at all, it didn’t show in her face. She did seem to chew on it, even as she dropped the subject and did not take it up again. Her silence continued as she retrieved her pack and bedroll from her horse and then walked toward where the rest of their group had clustered. Rhys hadn’t yet awakened, and Wynne kept glancing at him whenever she believed no one was looking. On seeing Evangeline with her things, Finn bounced up and headed to get his own. Malcolm decided he’d set up his tent after he’d spent a bit of time scouting around to make sure the darkspawn would be leaving them alone for the night. Given how easily the raiding party had been trounced, he assumed they wouldn’t disturb them again. Still, he had to be vigilant. It was part of the oath he’d taken, after all. The upside about being in a half-blighted desert was that they didn’t have to worry about gathering and burning the darkspawn bodies.

He hadn’t taken two steps before Evangeline questioned him in that quiet, yet steady way of hers. “You never said what would happen if someone had been contaminated.”

Malcolm stared up at the top of the iron tower as he considered the best way to answer the Knight-Captain’s question. After a moment, he said, “Nothing good.” It was true. Nothing would’ve happened, and there was nothing good he could say about it. So that he could escape another awkward conversation before it really got started, he took advantage of her silent surprise at his honesty. “I’m going to go make sure there aren’t any stragglers about.”

But Wynne followed, stopping him just outside the ring of glyphs. “Let me take a look at your head, just to be sure.”

“Are you sure you didn’t take a blow to the head? It isn’t like you, to not say what you mean. Well, I mean, you can be vague, but you don’t tend to pretend to do one thing but mean another.”

Probably just to spite him, she summoned her magic to assess him, even as she asked the question he knew was coming. “Are you certain about Rhys?”

He wanted to sigh, but he couldn’t fault Wynne for her caution. Had it been his son or daughter in the same situation, he’d be acting the same way she was. “He isn’t tainted.”

A soothing wave of healing magic washed over him, and he instantly felt better, which meant there’d been injuries he hadn’t been aware he had. “And what if he had been?” Wynne asked as she let her magic dissipate. “Do you have your kit?”

“Of course I do, but—Wynne, you know what it entails. You know what happens.” She knew more than a lot of new Wardens; she’d seen the effects firsthand. 

“I thought it was better now, with the new potion.”

“It is, but it’s still…” This time, he did sigh as he tried to properly word how the newer potion was both better and not at the same time. “Being a Warden will never be pleasant for anyone, and the Joining itself still carries its inherent risks. It never lost that.” He paused and waited until she looked directly at him. “Wynne, he’s fine. I promise. While I wouldn’t lie to you in general, I definitely wouldn’t lie about the health of your son, even grown man as he is.”

Her eyes told him she accepted and trusted his answer at first, before she switched to irritation. “You wouldn’t lie to me, young man? Just what do you think it was you did when you let me believe that Líadan had taken the children and left you?”

He fought the urge to shuffle his feet and stare at the ground because, like Wynne’s son, he was a grown man, too. “I, personally, didn’t tell you that. Even if I had, I wouldn’t have been lying. She did leave. She did take the children. It just so happens that it was a mutually agreed upon thing, and not because I did something stupid to upset her. Not this time.” Her expression softened just a little, and he pounced on the chance. “Look, I know—” He glanced back at the others gathered in the slowly forming camp at the base of the tower, making sure they were still engaged in their own conversations before he returned to Wynne. “I know you’re concerned about Ava. I know you’re angry about what we decided to do to keep her safe. But that’s the thing—we’re doing it to keep her safe.”

She crossed her arms, which didn’t indicate a great reception on her part, but she didn’t say anything, and indicated for him to continue.

“It’s _because_ we know that trying to cover up magic will only lead to people getting hurt that we’re getting her a teacher. But what we also know is that the Circle is not the safest of places, and certainly not now. I don’t know if you heard while we were at the White Spire, but there’s some sort of ghost going around killing mages, and the templars don’t seem terribly fussed about it. And now because a single blood mage tried to kill the Divine, every single mage is being punished with further restrictions on their freedoms. If we’d had no other choice—if we knew of no teachers other than those residing at or were members of the Circle—then we would’ve done something different. But we know good teachers who aren’t in the Circle, and we chose them.”

Wynne gave him a slight nod, her attention wandering briefly to her adult son, whom she’d not had the opportunity to raise because of Chantry rules imposed upon the Circle. “I had not wanted my own child to have magic, and yet, there he is, a Senior Enchanter in his own right. It is a gift, yet it is not a gift one would wish for a person, and certainly not a child. The same, I suspect, as you don’t wish anyone else to become a Grey Warden unless it was absolutely necessary.”

“A little. I’m not sure which is worse.”

She looked at him again. “You’re certain this teacher is good enough?”

“I’ve been told he’s the oldest Keeper the Dalish have, so I suspect he’s more than capable of doing the job.”

Wynne nodded again, her expression even softer, returned to the familiar face of a caring healer. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry.”

He preferred the anger; the empathy was too much to take. “So are we,” he said quickly, and then set to walking a patrol as Wynne wandered back to the makeshift camp.

Later that night, it was Leliana’s questions that were harder to field. She snuck up on him again, catching him when he couldn’t effectively avoid a conversation by walking away, because he was on watch. Their uneasy camaraderie had vanished, and they were left with the awkward unease from before, though his anger had yet to reach the levels it had earlier.

After a cursory whispered greeting, Leliana sat next to him, and then studied the sky for a time before she asked the question she’d most likely come out to ask. “If I had been in Rhys’ place, and then had I had been tainted, what would you have done?”

“The same as I would do for anyone else here,” said Malcolm. 

“You would kill them instead of attempting to make them Wardens?”

He blinked, and then swung his head around to look at her. “What? No. I’d give them the choice between the two, of course, but I think everyone with us except Wynne would go the Warden route. I’d give you the same choice.” He did wonder if she’d take it, now that he knew why she’d turned it down during the Blight. 

“I did not think you would extend that offer to me.”

“Clearly.” He sighed, too weary to be angry. “As much as I hate what you did, even as deeply as you hurt my brother, I don’t think I could kill you in cold blood. Or warm blood or however that works. Now, if I had to choose between you and, say, one of my children, or Líadan, or one of my brothers, then, sorry. You lose. Otherwise, no, I couldn’t.”

Her eyes swept up to Alindra’s tears once again as her fingers tapped idly on the knee of one of her crossed legs. She didn’t take her eyes from the stars when she asked, “Would Alistair?”

Malcolm wondered how long Leliana had held in that particular question. “Maybe once. Now? Probably not, no. He’s had some time to heal. I doubt he’d be civil, but I don’t think there’d be bloodshed. However, were I you, I’d keep avoiding him, just to be safe. And don’t mistake my unwillingness to kill you or let you die for trust. If there’s no way I could ever fully trust Morrigan again, then that goes doubly so for you.”

She shifted her gaze from the stars to the desert spread around them, and then toward the reddish glow from the gaping chasm of the Rift. “You need not fear to find a blade in your back. Not from me.”

The seriousness in her voice forced him to look at her and raise an eyebrow. “There are plenty of other places to stab me.”

“I will not kill you, nor will I allow you to be killed, if it is within my ability to prevent it.”

He studied her, weighing if he could possibly trust her words. Then he suddenly realized he could, because if she’d wanted him dead, there were about a hundred different ways she could’ve accomplished that probably in the last hour alone, possibly even the last five minutes. “Why?”

“Why, what?”

“Why should I trust you? Why do you _want_ me to trust you?”

“Because I am your friend, even though you believe me not to be.”

“You did go a long way to prove that you weren’t.”

She faced him again. “What I did was not personal. It was business, and you were never in danger. Even though you do not know it, even though you would not acknowledge it if you did, I have remained true to our friendship by aiding and protecting you from afar.”

“Oh, you mean like the time one of your nastier templars nearly smashed my head in? That kind of aid?”

“I misjudged.”

“You misjudge when you’re shooting arrows at a target and miss the center. Your entire plan with the templars went balls up, which was no mere mistake. Own it, because that has sown nearly as much distrust as your little hoax during the Blight.”

Leliana folded her arms over her chest and tightly gripped her elbows, straining to hold in her frustration. “Malcolm, who do you think it was who procured the dispensation for your marriage so quickly? 

He’d assumed it’d been Cassandra, even though she’d denied it, because he couldn’t think of anyone else who had the motivation, including Leliana. She’d never appeared particularly remorseful about her actions, not to him. “Why?”

“There is a debt I owe you and the others. I abandoned all of you for the Maker’s work, and while I do not regret my path, I do regret the hurt it has caused in each of you. I can never make full amends for what I have done, but I am compelled to try. The dispensation was merely one part of it.”

“Huh. So it really wasn’t Cassandra?”

“While she owes you and your family a debt of her own, it remains unfulfilled, as far as I know.”

If she’d arranged for his and Líadan’s dispensation, then she’d probably arranged for other things. Things that Alistair had never been willing to thoroughly deal with, danger though it presented. “You killed Eamon, didn’t you?”

She stood up, dusting off her trousers, which didn’t look dusty at all. “Boulders falling from an unstable cliff killed him.” Then she left him to his watch before he could inquire further, but he didn’t need to.

It was obvious who’d pushed the rocks, and just as obvious that Leliana would never admit to it. It didn’t bother him. With it, she’d given proof enough that she wasn’t as unworthy of trust as he’d thought.


	19. Chapter 19

“Once there was a great templar, shining and proud, righteous in his faith in the Maker’s will. So proud was he that, upon hearing legends of Flemeth, the Witch of the Wilds, he embarked on a quest to find and slay her on his own, leaving his home in Redcliffe behind.

On his way to the Korcari Wilds, the templar came to the village of Rossleigh on the western roads. There he spoke to a young woman that had heard tales of the witch from the Chasind wilder folk. ‘She is a monster,’ said the woman, ‘terrible in her temper and wild in her beauty. She is the hand of the cold, the wet, and the dark. Above all these things she is a myth, and not worth any man’s pain to find.’ But the templar would not heed such hearsay, and so he pressed on.”

—excerpt from _The Witch of the Wilds_ , as told by the minstrel Ensuelo

**Líadan**

Someone was humming.

Somehow, she’d never thought Falon’Din to be one to hum a vague tune as he led elves through the afterlife, which made her fairly certain that the humming wasn’t coming from him.

Someone was humming a song she couldn’t identify and it was annoying. But Líadan kept her eyes closed, refraining from alerting the other person to the fact that she was conscious. Now was the time to assess her situation, especially since she hadn’t expected to awaken anywhere but next to Falon’Din. Unless this was some sort of trick—which would implicate Fen’Harel rather than Falon’Din—she wasn’t dead. Captured, but not dead. Captured and in need of escape, and so she listened. Many things could be discerned just by listening.

Not today.

The humming stopped. “I can see that you’re awake,” a woman said in a voice worn by a lifetime of talking. “You might as well open your eyes.”

She did. The room holding her was small, its walls bare, and the single, tiny window barred. Outside, she caught a glimpse of the city of Kirkwall, topped with the Viscount’s Keep and the chantry high above. Needing to test the strength of the bars, she sat up and flung off the rough woolen blanket so she could do so.

They had her in a _robe._

A stupid mage’s robe like Anders used to wear, the one Líadan had made fun of him for wearing due to its impracticality, especially while traveling or in combat. And here she was, clad in one. Naked would’ve been less vulnerable, because at least her legs wouldn’t have been encumbered.

Much as she wanted to test for weaknesses right then, other matters needed to be taken care of. The mage caught her look and pointed at a small, practically hidden door. “Privy’s there. And don’t try to escape through it. You’ll end up dead _and_ covered in shit, which is one of the worst ways to go.”

Líadan acknowledged her with a scarce nod. When she returned, she tried to find her belongings. Her weapons were nowhere in sight, which meant they’d taken them. She had no idea where her bow—the gift from Malcolm—had gone. Nor did she know the whereabouts of her sword, which had been entrusted to her keeping by her grandfather. Her armor wasn’t hanging from a stand or stacked in a corner. It was gone. Her hand went to her neck, fingers hooking under the collar to see what else they’d dared take.

The Warden amulet and the silver thread necklace she’d gotten the night of her bonding were still there. 

What _wasn’t_ there, _who_ wasn’t there, was glaring and painful. None of those other missing things mattered when compared to what else they’d taken away: her children.

She’d been wrong. The hardest thing hadn’t been her inability to fix the problem. The hardest thing was that she’d failed them. She’d failed Cáel and Ava, she’d failed Malcolm, she’d failed herself, and she’d even failed Morrigan.

She would see them all freed. She would not fail them again.

Her eyes finally slid over to the source of the humming, a sturdy-looking older woman with iron gray hair, settled into a wooden rocking chair, and knitting. _Knitting_ , of all things. 

The woman nodded once at Líadan, and then looked over at the templar standing next to the door. “You, young man. Fetch something for her to eat.”

The templar’s bright blue eyes widened. “But—”

“Ser Ruvena and Ser Hugh are on guard outside. I doubt we’ll be conducting a daring escape while you’re in the kitchens.”

The man—who did look remarkably young, even to Líadan—nodded so deeply it almost resembled a shallow bow, and then trotted out of the room.

Líadan was mildly impressed. However, she wasn’t so impressed that she didn’t immediately take advantage of the templar being gone by testing the sturdiness of the iron bars in the window, and then the door right afterward. Neither had any give. She’d have to find another way, and she squeezed her hands into fists to keep from hitting the wooden door in frustration.

“Looking to escape?” asked the woman.

“Of course I am.”

“You won’t find it here. This room’s made especially for people like you.”

“People like me?”

“Yes.” The woman slowly glanced up from her knitting. “Fighter, aren’t you?”

“You can tell these things just by looking at someone?” Líadan plucked at the offending fabric that was now her clothing. “Even while wearing this?”

“There are times when that it is true, but this is not one of them. No. You, dear child, killed a lot of templars when they captured you. We stopped counting after eight.”

“Wasn’t enough.” If she’d managed to kill them all, then she and her children wouldn’t be trapped.

The woman raised an eyebrow after her knitting needles paused ever briefly. “Enough for what? To delay the inevitable? To satisfy some sort of vengeance you wish to exact from the templars?”

“No.” She hadn’t cared about delaying capture for herself. She’d fully intended on dying before that, but as long as she delayed the templars enough for her children to escape. In the end, it hadn’t been enough. She should have killed more of them. Held out longer. Something.

“No?” The woman sounded genuinely surprised. “You thought you’d win, then? You’re that sort?”

“No.” She’d even said to Ava to tell Varric that her mother _was_ Merrill’s clanmate. Was, past tense, as if she’d already gone to journey with Falon’Din.

“I hear tell you fought like a cornered she-wolf against those templars.”

“I did.” She should’ve fought like a varterral. Next time, she would.

“Hardest capture in years, some say.”

“Wasn’t enough.” It was still a capture, after all.

“For?”

“To—” She stopped, disturbed at how easily she’d engaged in conversation with this woman whose name she didn’t even know. “Who are you?”

The woman smiled, a smile that radiated friendliness. “Betrys. I’m often called Senior Enchanter Betrys, but I’ve never stood on it. More immediately to you, I’m the one who healed you after they brought you in.” The more Betrys spoke, the more Líadan thought she heard something familiar in the cadence of her words, but she couldn’t place it. “You weren’t in the best of shape when I first saw you. Fixed you right up, so you’re fine now. The templars wouldn’t shut it about how hard a fight you gave them.”

Líadan’s jaw tightened on an outburst, on shouting her frustration at being caged here, and her children not only caged as well, but not with her. But her building tirade wasn’t meant for this healer. “It doesn’t matter. It still wasn’t enough.”

“You haven’t told me what for.”

She briefly glanced over at the door, making sure it was closed and that templar hadn’t returned. “To protect them. To buy them time, keep them safe, keep them away from the Chantry, but it wasn’t enough, and now they’ve got my children.”

Betrys’ slow nod was one of understanding, as if she knew exactly the sort of desperation that had driven Líadan. Perhaps she’d had one of her own, and had managed to put up her own fight when the Chantry took that child away. “Ah, not a cornered she-wolf,” said Betrys. “A mother bear. Trite sort of comparison, but no other does it justice.” 

When Líadan didn’t answer, the older mage kept up the conversation, such as it was. “Mages?”

“One of them.” Líadan looked up from the ground. “Were they hurt? Did you heal them, too?”

“If they needed healing, I wasn’t the one doing it. I haven’t seen any new apprentices myself, but I’ve been here with you for the past day. No time to catch up on the gossip.”

Líadan spun to glare at the door. “I need to know.”

“The Knight-Commander might never tell you.”

She could scarcely breathe at the idea that she’d never know their fates. That if she couldn’t escape, if she couldn’t find them and bring them with her, they’d be forever lost. The thought of never seeing them again threatened to shatter her control and loose the panic surging in her chest.

When the door opened to admit the young templar, now carrying a tray burdened with food, she shoved past him. The tray flew out of his hands and clattered onto the floor as he shouted with surprise. Before Líadan could clear the doorway, a templar stepped in front of her. Without directly engaging, she bounced off him, taking the his dagger from the sheath on his belt, and then used her momentum to get past him. By the time she’d taken three steps, the other templar with him had called a smite on her. It drained her magic and threw her to the ground, but she got right back up, dagger still in hand.

“Pax! Paxley!” yelled the templar who’d tried to stop her. “Moira! Come help!” Then he turned his full attention to Líadan. “Are you going to use blood magic?”

Líadan gave him a withering look. 

“I think if she were going to use blood magic, she’d have done it when they captured her,” said the female templar. 

Footsteps came from behind Líadan, presumably the summoned templars, Paxley and Moira. She set her feet and loosened her limbs as much as she could, readying for the fight to come.

The templar who’d been assigned guard duty inside Líadan’s cell stepped out of it, looking genuinely upset and torn. “She’s holding that dagger like she knows how to use it, Hugh,” he said. Then he looked at Líadan. “Please, _please_ don’t make us have to use force. None of us here, right now in this hallway, are that sort of templar. We’re on your side, much as we can be. We’ve all seen the worst of both sides. Someone has to be the better.”

He sounded so earnest that she wondered if it was some kind of trap.

When she didn’t respond, he grimaced. “Really, please, stand down. You could kill all of us here, but you won’t make it out of the Gallows alive if you did. Someone would cut you down and you’d be dead with nothing to show for it except being dead.”

“Real eloquent, that,” said the female templar.

“Shut up,” said the inside guard. “I’m on the spot. I doubt you’d do any better.”

“Also,” added a templar from behind her, who sounded no older than the rest, “the Knight-Captain would be highly pissed if something happened to you. As in, we’d all regret the day we were born sort of pissed. Each of us has instructions to ensure that you aren’t harmed, and woe unto us if you come to harm under our watch.”

Líadan wondered if the Knight-Captain was still Ser Cullen, the same templar who’d not killed her while she fought off a demon trying to forcefully possess her. She’d briefly appeared to be turned, and he’d stayed his blade to see if it was permanent or not before he acted with finality. He was a fair man, at least back then. Aside from that, the younger templar was right. Standing her ground right now would get her nowhere but dead, and she’d certainly not be able to free her children then.

She growled and tossed the dagger on the floor, where it clanged and then slid along the stone to come to a stop against its owner’s boot.

“Thank you,” said the young templar from the room. 

“Now,” came a templar’s voice from behind her, “if you could please go back to your room, that would also be nice.”

“I will, but don’t you dare touch me,” said Líadan.

“Deal,” said the templar in front of her before any of the others could disagree. 

They all watched her warily as she walked between them, and Líadan wondered if they were more afraid of her or their Knight-Captain. Considering they were templars, it was likely the Knight-Captain. Her Dalishness might have a small effect on them, but not much. Not as much as she’d like.

The young templar from the room fell into step next to her. “I’m Ser Keran,” he said. “In case you wondered, which you probably didn’t, but that’s all right.” He chucked a thumb at the female templar who’d been standing outside the door. “She’s Ser Ruvena, and next to her is Ser Hugh. And you probably figured out who Sers Moira and Paxley are.”

“Is there a reason you’re telling me this?” She didn’t want to care about the information, but she did, because the more she learned, the more it would aid her escape.

“Yes? I mean, yes.” Keran rubbed at the back of his neck. “We’re your guard detail, for lack of a better phrase. The Knight-Captain chose us himself when you were brought in yesterday. One of us will always be near you.”

“Really?” She glared at him, refusing to feel sympathy just because he looked so youthful and honest. “You say it like it’s a good thing. Let me tell you something—it isn’t.”

“It is, in a way. We’re witnesses.”

“You’re bungling this horribly,” said Ser Moira.

Keran scowled at her. “You explain it, then.”

“We’re the good templars,” Moria said to Líadan. “We stick around because we’re a pair of eyes that’ll keep the bad templars from doing anything, well, bad.”

If they properly ran their stupid Circles, they wouldn’t have to go this far with any mage. “Am I supposed to feel grateful?”

“Um, no?” Keran practically whined. “I don’t know what you’re supposed to feel, actually, nor does it matter, I suppose. It is what it is, as they say.” Then they stepped into Líadan’s room—cell—and Keran immediately took up his guard post again. Behind them, the other templars closed and locked the door from the outside.

“That wasn’t unexpected.” Betrys was seated in her chair, watching them with a bit of humor in her eyes, which became even more amused at Líadan’s overt exasperation. While the argument had gone on outside, it seemed Betrys had picked up the scattered food and replaced it on the tray. It now stood on a small wooden table, alongside a sweating ceramic jug of water and a pair of tin cups.

Líadan didn’t want to eat, because it would feel like giving in further, giving this place some permanence. Her appetite said otherwise.

Betrys quickly picked up on Líadan’s conflicted thoughts.  “Not eating doesn’t do you any good. Makes you weak.” She waved her hand at the food. “Eat.”

After another half-moment of indecision, Líadan cautiously sat on one of the two plain chairs and started to eat. Ser Keran let out an audible sigh relief.

Had Líadan’s situation not been so dire, she would’ve laughed. Instead, she turned her attention to sustenance before she became too immersed in questioning herself, and not her situation. Once she’d eaten enough to quell her complaining stomach, she set to obtaining more information. “Where are you from?” she asked Betrys. “You don’t sound like you’re from Kirkwall.”

“Neither do you.”

“Yes, but I wasn’t—I’m Dalish, obviously.”

“Yes, obviously. But Dalish from where?”

“A Dalish clan.”

Betrys folded her arms over her chest. “I’ll wager a guess myself,” she said, her light tone at odds with her posture. “You’ve got that Dalish lilt going on, but there’s a touch of Fereldan in there, too.”

Líadan didn’t answer. 

“Ah, so I’m right. Why the embarrassment? An accent is an accent. A reflection of where you’ve been in your life. I’m sure that after six years here, I’ve added some Kirkwaller to my Starkhavener.”

Which explained why Betrys sounded familiar, being from the same city as Meghan and Sebastian. “I’m not embarrassed.”

“No? Why the reticence?”

This woman seemed intelligent, but Líadan couldn’t see how Betrys couldn’t see the danger. “I don’t know enough of what’s going on to be telling people who I am and where I’m from.”

“For starters, I know you’re a Grey Warden.”

Líadan raised her eyebrows. It wasn’t something one could exactly tell, not from looking, and not even when healers examined them. The only exception was if a Warden’s Calling approached and had begun to manifest on the skin.

Betrys pointed at Líadan’s neck. “Your amulet there. I’ve treated a few Wardens in my day, and they’ve all got that same one. The wee griffons engraved on it are confirmation enough. They even convinced the Knight-Commander to leave it on you, along with the necklace entangled with it.”

“I…” Líadan’s hand went to both. She was so used to having them there that she rarely felt them, and at their mention, needed to reassure herself once more that they were still there. “Thank you.” Aside from her memories, Líadan realized she would have had nothing else left as a reminder of her bondmate if the necklace had been taken. He wasn’t here, and their children were here in this Circle, but not _here_ , not where she could see them and hug them and reassure them that they’d get out of this. When she got word out, she could barely imagine how Malcolm would feel once he knew. She could barely even predict what he’d do. He could organize and plan, or he could revert to how impulsive he’d been—how impulsive they _both_ had been—years ago. Neither of them had lost anything of this scale in a long time. And she knew it had been her actions that led to this, not his. Not his at all.

“I suspect that if the Wardens hear, they’ll be coming to get you out?”

She certainly couldn’t imagine Georg or Hildur _not_ gathering up a contingent of Wardens and paying Kirkwall’s Circle an unkindly visit, especially not after Hildur’s declarations when they’d returned from the Kirkwall mission. “Of course they will.” The question, really, was how long it would take once she got a message to them.

“Mmm.” Betrys picked up her knitting. “They’d have to hear. I reckon there’ll be some trouble making that happen.”

Líadan frowned. If the Knight-Captain was still Cullen, he’d probably already sent word. At the very least, he’d have mentioned it to Marian or Sebastian. Or there was Carver, too. Or maybe even the Grand Cleric. He had to be here somewhere. There was no way he wouldn’t tell his mother. “I thought there were ways to—”

“There were, but not anymore.” She inclined her head toward Ser Keran. “The templars like him, the decent boys and girls, the Knight-Commander keeps as locked up as the mages they presume to guard.”

“Haven’t seen my family in weeks,” said Keran.

Sad as he sounded, she wasn’t interested in his plight. “I haven’t seen my bondmate in weeks, my children have been taken from me, and I don’t know when I’ll see any of them ever again.” Too agitated to stay in her chair, she rose and walked to the window, and resumed testing the sturdiness of the iron bars. While being separated from Malcolm hadn’t been easy, and hadn’t looked to be getting any easier, there had been an end in there somewhere. She would have seen him again. She could’ve prevailed over Emrys to at least let Malcolm visit. She would’ve known how long Emrys believed Ava would be his apprentice. Perhaps eventually he could have passed Ava over to Feynriel as an apprentice, and Feynriel might have considered returning to human lands. There had been something of an end, and now there was nothing. “So,” she said out loud, not bothering to look at the templar, “forgive me if I really don’t care about what you’re going through.”

“I’m sorry,” said Keran. “I was just helping to prove… I was…”

“Ser Keran here has a good soul,” said Betrys. “Because he’s a good lad, he’s one of the ones whom the Knight-Commander keeps on the tightest of leashes. All those templars you just met—the ones who didn’t lay a finger on you in anger even when you tried to escape and stole a dagger on the way—they’re like Keran. And they all take after the Knight-Captain, who is kept on the same restrictions they are. What does that say to you?”

“That there aren’t many good templars. That this Circle is a deathtrap. That this system of imprisoning mages simply because they can use magic is stupid and barbaric.”

“None of that is anything that a mage of the Circle hasn’t said before,” said Betrys. “But keep going, if you’d like. Maybe you’ll add something to the list of things we haven’t thought of yet.”

Líadan couldn’t decide if she was supposed to like or hate Betrys.

There was a sudden, loud rap on the door, and then Ruvena poked her head in. “Just had a messenger. The Knight-Commander wants to see you.”

“If I say no, how much trouble would it be?” asked Líadan.

The color drained from Keran’s cheeks. “Please don’t.”

“I’ll go,” said Líadan. It wasn’t like she didn’t have questions to ask of Meredith, or demands to make, and possibly some threats.

Through hallways remarkably empty, the grey stone walls reinforcing the dreariness of the Gallows, Ser Keran and Ser Hugh brought her down to the Knight-Commander’s office. The door was open, allowing Líadan to see the Knight-Commander sitting at her desk, practically lounging in her chair, with the pommel of her sword visible from where it was leaned against her desk. It amused Líadan to see the same iron bars in her windows were just as present in Meredith’s study, though Meredith could leave the Gallows whenever she wished, unlike Líadan. Between the two windows, Meredith had mounted a templar shield with two crossed swords behind it. Unfortunately, it was too far away for Líadan to grab a sword, and so it was not the opportunity she was looking for. 

The two younger templars led her into the office, and Líadan could immediately tell that Meredith hadn’t changed much in the six years since Líadan had last encountered her. She still carried that powerful presence resembling _Asha’belannar_ ’s, and it tended to fill a room so much that anyone else in it felt diminished. Líadan projected back as much as she could, and bolstered it with the strength and confidence of her own that she’d gained over the years since.

Meredith dismissed the two templars, only telling Líadan to sit down once the door had closed.

Seeing no point in trying to intimidate the Knight-Commander—one didn’t intimidate her so much as _keep up_ —Líadan picked the chair directly across from her, and waited. 

And so Meredith waited.

Líadan met Meredith’s gaze, even as she searched out other makeshift weapons. There was a silverite statuette of Andraste—she was mostly sure it was Andraste—being used as a paperweight of sorts. There was a quill pen. An inkpot that could be splashed in someone’s eyes. Another chair, maybe. Not much. Not enough.

A smirk briefly touched Meredith’s lips, and then she was the first to speak. Yet, it didn’t feel like a victory. “I see that you are well. Senior Enchanter Betrys has proved herself one of our finest healers.”

Líadan had no inclination toward small talk. “Do you not realize that I’m a Grey Warden?”

“Of course I do. That is the only reason why you yet live.”

“When am I to be released to them?” Perhaps Meredith would see reason. Perhaps Meredith would see that eventually, most likely, the Wardens would find out that Meredith was keeping her prisoner, and the Wardens would rectify that situation with force, and then Meredith would stop being stupid and release her. Once Líadan was out and under the protection of the Wardens, she could see to getting her children. Ava had to be here in the Gallows; she couldn’t have possibly been moved to another Circle already. Cáel, she wasn’t sure about, not when he wasn’t a mage. He could still be held here, but the chantry was a strong possibility, as well. Yet, if they knew who she was, knew who Cáel’s birth mother was, they might keep him all the same, like she and Malcolm had feared. It was why he’d come with her when she’d left with Ava for the Dalish. And everything had gone wrong when they had found the Mahariel.

The Mahariel, who were all dead, save her and possibly Merrill. After all this, she’d never even found out the fate of her last clanmate.

Meredith straightened slightly as she pressed her mouth into a thin line, her lips blanching white. Then she spoke in a measured tone, one lacking the arrogant bite from before. “You killed nine of my templars. _Nine_. The life of a tenth hangs in the balance. You will be tried for their deaths.”

“If they had left me alone, they wouldn’t be dead. It’s not my fault they were ill-prepared to deal with a Grey Warden.”

The arrogance returned, and Meredith went back to a relaxed posture. “They were not prepared to deal with a mage who doesn’t require magic in order to be deadly, I will admit to that.”

A pointless concession. “Where are my children?”

Meredith lifted her eyebrows. “Oh, they _are_ yours? I had wondered, considering they’re human.”

It was an attempt to jab at an old wound, one that barely bothered Líadan any longer, not in this context. “Their father is human. I’m surprised you’ve lived this long and have yet to learn that the children of elves and humans are human.”

“Yes, I realize. However, they often have some vestiges of elven traits. Fineness of bone structure, slightly larger eyes, ears a little pointed compared to a typical human’s. Your children exhibit none of these. If one were not told, one would not know.”

“Their father’s line is particularly strong in the traits it passes on.” It was. Both Alistair and Malcolm carried traits that strongly painted them as Theirins, as did their children in turn. Ava’s Theirin features were decidedly finer compared to her brother and cousins, but they’d been strong enough to override anything elven from Líadan’s side. She did, however, have hair closer to auburn than rust of her brother’s or the shockingly blond of her two cousins, and had a smattering of freckles splashed across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, something that no other children of her father’s family had. While Líadan’s own freckles had faded as she’d grown older, she still had them on her shoulders, so there were at least some things about Ava that marked her not only as Malcolm’s daughter, but her own, too.

But that was neither here nor there. “Tell me where they are.”

If Líadan’s phrasing of her question as a demand bothered Meredith, she didn’t outwardly react to it. “The girl couldn’t control her magic,” Meredith said, as if delivering a particularly dull report. “She tried to use it on my templars—don’t worry, while they were barely capable of subduing an adult, they had no issues with a child. She was just as easily drained by a smite, picked up, and carried here. No violence, not a scratch on her, but she did yell a great deal. The boy proved more difficult after he managed to slip a Knight-Corporal’s grasp.”

Líadan stood up, on her feet before she realized she was doing it. “If you’ve hurt him—”

“You’ll do what, exactly? You can hardly kill me with your bare hands, much as you might wish to, not when I wear armor and you do not.” Meredith dismissed Líadan’s half-spoken threat with a wave of her hand. “You’ve no need for concern. Aside from a few scrapes when a templar knocked him back to keep the boy from getting himself run through, he is otherwise unharmed.” Meredith’s smirk returned in brief moments, as if she relished retelling some aspects of the tale. “They were very protective, the pair of them. The girl immediately tried to use her fledging magic, while the boy wriggled free, picked up a fallen sword, and went right after the templars closest to you. His form, I am told, was very good, but the sword was simply too heavy for him to wield effectively. Perhaps we’ll make a templar out of him.”

Líadan took a step toward Meredith’s desk, her hand beginning to move toward the Andraste statuette she’d eyed earlier.

“Go ahead.” Meredith didn’t bother with rising from her chair, merely straightened again, just by a hair. “Attack me, if you dare. Just know that if you do, and you aren’t killed in the process, you will never see your children again.”

As Líadan had started for the statuette, Meredith’s hand had drifted toward the grip of the sword next to her. Líadan noted that Meredith was much more observant than she’d assumed, and that Meredith had the power to ensure Líadan would never so much as catch a glimpse of her children if Meredith so chose.

She took a step back, but did not sit down.

“They are safe,” Meredith said once Líadan had moved away. “For now.”

Líadan didn’t drop her eyes, holding Meredith’s look as she retook her chair. “They aren’t safe if they’re held here or anywhere by the Chantry.” Her taking a seat had changed the dynamic once again, and almost felt the meeting of equals, but not quite.

“According to you,” said Meredith.

“According to many.”

“Are you going to tell me who you are?”

“Are you going to insist on playing this game? You know very well who I am. You know exactly who their father is. You risk much by continuing to hold us.”

“Your daughter is a mage. Surely you must know this, even if you did not see her little display of magic with my templars.”

“I’m not blind.” Yet, if she hadn’t happened on the fight between Ava and Cáel, she had no idea when she or Malcolm would have picked up on it.

“One wouldn’t think you stupid, either, and yet you leave her untrained.”

“I was bringing her for training with the Dalish. If it hasn’t escaped your notice, I _am_ Dalish.”

Meredith laughed. “And you found the clan that long camped at the base of Sundermount, massacred down to the last one, did you? And you came into Kirkwall, looking for their murderers?”

Líadan crossed her arms and glared. She would not dignify Meredith with an answer. Her silence would be taken just as much an answer as any, but she would not tell Meredith the truth, that she’d been looking for Merrill.

“Ah, so you were.” As quickly as it had appeared, the laughter left her voice, and it descended back to the seriousness at hand. “I see it must have been overly strong emotions that caused your temporary stupidity. A common fault, human or elf.” She shuffled some papers about on her desk, skimming one and then another before she looked at Líadan again. “The Fereldan Crown will not know you are here. Someone would have to tell them, and none of my templars will so much as breathe a word. Every witness to the brawl has been rounded up and taken care of. You are in the Chantry’s hands, and I daresay you will not escape them. Not you, nor your children.”

“Ferelden will come looking.” They would have to know, somehow. Sooner or later, at least a rumor would start. Something. She couldn’t be left here to languish. Her children couldn’t be allowed to grow up prisoners. 

Meredith raised an eyebrow. “Why would they? They will simply assume you are with the Dalish and refraining from contacting them out of anger or safety.” For a moment, amusement brushed her eyes again. “I assume it was a cover, your leaving of your prince?”

Líadan decided that question also did not dignify an answer.

“It was a good one, I will say. Up until how you chose to act when you discovered the fate of the Mahariel.”

She didn’t want to hear Meredith speak of the Mahariel any longer. “Where is my mabari?”

“I regret to inform you that she died while defending your children from my templars. If it’s any consolation, your dog killed three of them before she was put down.”

_Put down_.

She would not cry. She would not show any weakness, not in front of this woman, not in front of anyone. She would not allow this woman to see how she had failed. She had failed Revas, she’d failed herself, she’d failed Malcolm, she’d failed Morrigan, and most of all, she had failed Cáel and Ava. They would suffer the most.

She—they—needed to escape. They had contacts in Kirkwall, all they had to do was reach them. Surely all the witnesses couldn’t have been killed, not with that big of a confrontation in Lowtown. Bethany’s brother was a templar here, in the Gallows. Líadan had heard him mention before that he wasn’t as enthusiastic about being a templar as many others were. He’d done it to form an identity separate from his sisters. That part, he’d only told Bethany and Marian a year ago, which was when Carver and Bethany started writing regularly.

As if Meredith could see the direction of Líadan’s thoughts, she said, “And your Ser Carver will not be able to help you, if that is what you believe. He has been reassigned for the duration of your stay here.”

“And how long will that be?” Maybe they’d transfer her somewhere else. Another Circle could offer more routes of escape, or she might even be able to get away during the transfer.

Meredith offered a half-shrug. “It depends on what is decided. It may be for the rest of your life, a mage living here in the Circle as Andraste intended. Or, perhaps, you will be executed for your crimes. At the very least, you must undergo a Harrowing, being unharrowed as you are.”

“No.”

“I must warn you, should you refuse, you will be made Tranquil. I will see to it myself.”

Líadan stared right back at Meredith’s level gaze, refusing to back down.

Meredith sighed, and it almost sounded sincere. “Since this must be…. quite a change for you, I will allow you some time to come to your senses. Do not mistake my mercy for weakness. I grant you this time only because my Knight-Captain has insisted you are in no danger of possession. It appears he witnessed you fight demons, as a Warden, and that you were never tempted. However, I cannot wait forever for you to come to your senses, and I will meet with you each day until you do.” Meredith set aside the sheaf of papers she’d been looking over. “One more thing. Because you are not Harrowed, you will be treated as an apprentice, and live in the same dormitory as our older apprentices.”

“I’m not a child.”

Her smile was quick and infuriating. “You are to the Circle.”

She quickly made good on her promise. Templars escorted Líadan out of the Knight-Commander’s office and to the apprentice dormitory instead of the room Líadan had awakened in. Her magical skills were assessed, and she was assigned lessons and classes like any other apprentice would have been. In an incredibly short order, Meredith proved to Líadan that she truly would be treated as any other mage. It was infuriating and insulting, especially because it meant Líadan was treated as no more than a child, as was promised.

On meeting Orsino, Líadan had decided she didn’t like him. The more interactions she had with him, the less she did. There was something about him she couldn’t place, but it made her skin itch when she was around him. 

Because he and a templar were her escort after every morning meeting with Meredith, she saw him far more than she preferred. 

After another of many morning visits with Meredith, Orsino’s mouth had immediately descended into a frown when Líadan walked out of Meredith’s office, some mornings later. As if she truly were a recalcitrant apprentice, he shook his head slowly. However, he did save his lecture for farther down the corridor. 

“She will make you Tranquil if you continue to refuse, do not doubt that,” Orsino said to her.

“I’ll kill her first,” said Líadan.

Orsino looked back at their templar tail. 

Ser Ruvena rolled her eyes. “Every mage here says that one time or another. If we brought everyone in for it, it’d never end. I’ll pretend I didn’t hear it, like I usually do. Unless you two start slitting your wrists or directly summoning demons, I have no shits to give about what you say or do.”

Orsino studied the templar for a moment more, nodded, and turned to Líadan. “You’ll have to give in. Are you afraid? If what I’ve heard is true, you’ve successfully fought demons in the Fade before.”

Líadan raised an eyebrow. “A mage who isn’t somewhat afraid to fight a spirit in the Beyond is a very foolish one. I’ve fought them before, and won, but that isn’t why I refuse.”

“Then why?”

“I don’t need to be Harrowed. I refuse to submit to a barbaric shemlen ritual that does far more ill than it does good. I’ve proven my ability to remain unpossessed, time and time again, and I will continue to do so by _staying_ unpossessed by any spirit. What I will not do is submit, either to Meredith’s threats of Tranquility or going through a Harrowing. The Dalish do not _submit_.” She bit down on the ‘flat-ear’ epithet that nearly came out, stopping it when she remembered that Fiona had been raised in a place such as this, and her courage had proven her no flat-ear. But she didn’t want to look at or speak to this First Enchanter anymore, that much was certain.

Her last line filled the space between them, and they took more than a few steps without saying more. Then he asked, “What about your children?”

She whirled around and shoved him against the wall, knocking one of the mage lights from a sconce. “Do not bring them up again, unless it’s to tell me that they’re being brought to me, or that they’ve been released to their father’s custody. Otherwise, do not speak to me of things you do not know.” Then she let him go, turned on her heel, and walked away. She gave the mage light a good kick as she did, feeling a little satisfaction when it broke against the smooth stone wall. 

Ser Ruvena did nothing to interfere, and followed Líadan without an additional word.

Living amongst the older apprentices had turned out to be not as insufferable as Líadan had believed. They really were older, some at the end of their teens, and others nearing their majority, with no young adolescents among them. Even then, it was somewhat galling to know she had over a decade on the next eldest apprentice. And, of course, none of them had children, which marked her as even older. While it did bother her, it didn’t bother her too terribly much aside from when she was reminded. What did bother her, most of all, was the _noise_. 

It was like they were entirely incapable of using inside voices, or refraining from chatting about every little thing that crossed their minds. If she could at least see her children, she would’ve dealt better. But they were considered younger apprentices and lived in the dormitories reserved for that age group, and the two were separated by several floors. In addition, Meredith had templars ensure that they did not come across each other during the course of the day.

Líadan would have retreated to the library, but she wasn’t allowed, because too many of the younger apprentices used it, and those apprentices could include her children. Sometimes, she had to laugh, almost without bitterness, at thinking of Cáel and how he must be reacting. With him not being a mage, he was either bored out of his mind, engaging in tiny rebellions, or both. Likely both, which would only increase his tendency to rebel. While Ava wouldn’t be happy, not separated as she was, and not while knowing she had to keep hidden her true ability, she at least would be benefitting from her lessons. Ava had been an eager and attentive student with Keeper Perran, and had delighted in what she could learn from Líadan while they’d traveled. Her daughter genuinely getting a better opportunity to learn was the one good thing Líadan could find in their predicament. 

However, it was far overshadowed by the fact that they were in a Circle, and the pall of its imminent threat that never seemed to lift. She could only hope that Emrys and Feynriel had managed to keep protecting Ava in the Beyond. Yet, even if either one of them could speak to Ava in the Beyond, she wouldn’t believe them. She hadn’t met them yet, and she’d think them a spirit. It was good, because she’d be resisting possible spirits, and yet bad, because there was no way to communicate with her grandfather and his apprentice.

The noise assaulted them as soon as they walked into the large room. 

“How can you stand it?” Líadan asked Ruvena.

“There’s more than one reason why we guard in shifts. We’d lose our minds, otherwise. Speaking of, Ser Keran will be with you this afternoon.”

Ser Keran was the one who insisted on trying to apologize all the time, presumably so that Líadan would tolerate him or be nicer to him. But he reminded her of what Alistair had probably been like as he’d neared his knighthood. It was a painful reminder, and so she remained brusque with Keran. “Wonderful,” she said out loud.

“You’ve lessons this morning, I assume?”

“More like torture sessions, but yes.”

Ruvena thought about it for a moment. “Wait, torture for you or torture for them?”

“Both, I imagine.” Líadan did not make it easy on any mage who was assigned as her instructor. She’d had instructors already. She’d had good instructors, and she’d learned to do everything her magic was capable of. Her time would have been better off spent doing practically anything else. Even a brief walk outside would be nice. 

She missed the sun and the forest, more keenly than she ever had while living in Denerim, because she wasn’t entirely certain she would ever see them again.


	20. Chapter 20

“So, in the dawn of the Blessed Age, we sealed Adamant’s mighty gates. We left the great griffon statues to tarnish and wear in the blowing sand, retreating to Montsimmard with a sense of loss and shame. I recently returned with a small expedition to retrieve supplies left behind and was surprised to see it still standing. The dwarves did well by us, and I suspect Adamant will remain for ages to come… but should the Order ever return, they will find it difficult to resurrect this place. Only spirits roam its halls now, alongside the memories of those who gave their lives to protect us all from darkness.”

—from the journal of Veldin, Grey Warden of Orlais, 8:18 Blessed

**Malcolm**

As the daytime winds stilled, they first caught sight of Adamant from the base of the last iron tower of the Western Approach. The ancient Warden fortress abutted the lip of the Abyssal Rift—strong with its tall and scoured statues, yet precarious, much like the order that once maintained it.

“Why’s the fortress look like it’s perched over the edge of the chasm?” asked Adrian.

“It’s a despondent fortress,” Malcolm said without looking over. 

“That was horrible,” Finn said over chuckles from someone else.

“One of you laughed,” said Malcolm. “I heard it.”

Evangeline, her mouth barely showing signs of amusement, turned from her study of the Rift and Adamant. “I think we should camp here for the night. We do not want to approach the fortress without proper reconnaissance, and we risk darkspawn attack if we advance past sundown.”

“But we’re so close!” said Finn.

“Charging in when exhausted from a day of trekking across sand dunes isn’t exactly the best of plans,” said Malcolm. “We don’t know if we’ll find fighting or refuge in there. Better we be rested.” He ignored the surprised look Leliana gave him. He knew why she’d given it, because she hadn’t been around him in the past years as he’d finally grown up. The Malcolm she remembered would’ve charged straight in, only a passing thought given to their readiness and the consequences of ignoring it. He knew better now. While he might truly want to charge right in, it was better to sit back and plan first, that way they’d only have to do it once, and hopefully suffer fewer casualties.

“I agree,” said Leliana.

Movement from around the base of Adamant caught Malcolm’s eye, and he squinted to see what it was. If he wasn’t wrong about what he saw on the banner, a small group of four templars were riding a circuit outside the fortress. “They look like templars to me,” he said to Evangeline.

“I concur.”

“Friends of yours?” He didn’t know what kind of friends, really. Fellow templars, fellow like-minded templars, whichever. 

“No.”

Maybe Seekers in disguise. He looked over at Leliana. “Yours?”

“They are no acquaintances of mine.”

“Does that mean we crush them?” asked Shale.

“No,” said Evangeline, who hadn’t lost the sour look on her face.

“It may be necessary,” said Leliana.

“Possibly,” Malcolm said at the same time.

Evangeline sighed. “No fire this evening, and all glowstones must be dimmed. We’ll watch for the templar party to approach us overnight, and if they do not, I will go speak with them tomorrow.”

“What if they decide they don’t like you and kill you for it?” asked Finn.

“Then the rest of you may avenge my unjust death,” said Evangeline.

“I think I’m starting to like you,” said Rhys.

Adrian rolled her eyes.

Evangeline frowned at her, and then the rest of them. “You will all also need to be quiet.”

The order held up until they were settling back against rocks to eat a cold dinner, and a spider scurried out from underneath the rock Malcolm leaned on. He yelped and threw out his arms, sending the last piece of his flatbread flying before he toppled over in his rush to get away from the spider. Embarrassment at his reaction flushed his cheeks red, but that’d been the third spider in as many days, and that one could’ve crawled into his clothing. The others he’d admirably managed to not make a big deal over, and had taken care of himself. Líadan would’ve been absolutely astonished, and probably a little proud of him.

As Wynne and Leliana laughed quietly—being well familiar with his reactions to arachnids—Evangeline half-stood in alarm, as did Rhys, Adrian and Finn.

“Darkspawn?” asked Evangeline.

Rhys and Finn grabbed their staves from where they’d placed them against another rock.

“I do not think it is anything so dangerous,” said Leliana. Then she pointed at the spider, now huddled against Adrian’s boot. “Not to any of us.”

Adrian shot Malcolm a disbelieving look as she bent to pick up the spider. She allowed it to crawl onto her palm— _crawl onto her palm_ , what was _wrong_ with her?—and then extended it toward Malcolm. He stopped dusting himself off long enough to take a few cautionary steps back.

“No, no. You keep it.” He held his hands up to prevent her from getting any closer to him with that spider. “Better yet, let it go in the sand.” He pointed in the opposite direction of Adamant. “That way. Far as you can.”

After she rolled her eyes, she took a few steps beyond the protection of the glyphs, set down the spider, and then returned. Malcolm kept his eyes on the spider to make sure it didn’t head back to their campsite. To his relief, it took off toward the Rift. 

“You’re really afraid of spiders? Truly?” asked Rhys.

“Yes.” Malcolm chose another seat, this one not next to a rock a spider could hide under. It was next to Leliana, who gave him a consoling pat on the back even as she failed to hide her amusement as his expense.

“As in, you’re not kidding?” asked Adrian.

He shook his head. “Nope. Very real fear.”

“But you fight darkspawn. You fight darkspawn like you’re facing nothing more than a straw dummy. But a spider gets to you?”

“Darkspawn,” said Malcolm, pointing at the Rift for emphasis, “don’t have eight legs. Even archdemons only have four. Check back in with me when they grow four more. Or get fuzzy thoraxes, or thoraxes at all.” He shuddered. “Their fangs are also disproportionate. Sure, dragons have fangs. But you look at them and they’re huge, and they have giant maws for a mouth, so it makes sense that their fangs are big. Then you take spiders, and after you get past the too many legs part, you realize that if a dragon had fangs of a spider’s proportions, the dragon wouldn’t be able to hold its head up. Spiders are just legs with fangs, really.”

“You’ve spent a disturbing amount of time thinking about that,” said Finn.

“I’ve run into a lot of spiders. One nearly crushed me to death.” Granted, that’d led to the point where Fenarel found out about him and Líadan and Fenarel had lost his shit, and Líadan had started to put a righteous smack-down on her former clanmate before Sten had intervened. He was still sad that Sten had halted the fight. Líadan would’ve won, and it would have been _glorious._

“How could something like that even happen?” asked Adrian.

“They can get as big as young dragons. If a spider that size falls on you, that’s how it happens.”

“What were you doing under it in the first place?” asked Evangeline.

“Trying not to piss myself.” Which was entirely true. That his smalls had remained dry was a miracle in of itself.

Rhys raised an eyebrow.

Malcolm grumbled. “When you wear armor like I do, people think you need to be the one running up close to the big monsters to fight them. Sometimes, that means _under_ them, like with a dragon or a huge sodding spider. I still have nightmares about it, and they’re bad enough that I prefer the nightmares about darkspawn.”

“I’m…” Rhys trailed off as he looked toward where Adrian had freed the spider, and then turned back to Malcolm. “I’m willing to concede that your fear of spiders isn’t so irrational, after all.”

“You’re all right.” Malcolm grinned at him. “I don’t care what your mother says about you.”

That sent Wynne to her own grumbling, which got the attention off Malcolm, as he’d intended. 

Without the fire pulling them all to a central location, they broke into smaller groups as the evening progressed, conversing to pass the time. Malcolm found himself speaking in low tones with Leliana more than he’d ever fathomed. But he had a lot of questions about what’d happened with the templars and Seekers in Denerim, and he wanted all the answers he could get. 

He also wanted the truth about what’d happened during the Blight, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask. His own mind didn’t want to think about it, because it was a half-reopened wound that really needed to scar over before it could take that sort of conversation. It was better to stick to the relatively more recent, given the more immediate things Leliana had done to make up for it. She kept asking about Líadan, but he didn’t dare say more than he already had. Realizing this, she asked about Cáel and Ava—he was not surprised to learn that she’d known the names of his children—and he was happy enough to talk about them. He said nothing more about Ava’s newfound talent, but there were countless other things to do with them that he proudly and fondly relayed.

When it grew late enough that to stay awake would be irresponsible, they parted for their own tents on surprisingly good terms. As long as he nor Leliana brought up the Blight, they were all right.

Evangeline woke him for last watch, which he held, bleary-eyed, with Adrian. Well, bleary-eyed until Adrian started talking, because her chosen subject startled him fully awake.

“The sister who’s traveling with us,” said Adrian, “she seems to have taken a special interest in you.”

He chuckled to himself. “She’s no sister.”

“No, I wouldn’t imagine so, considering.”

“What? Oh, no.” Having realized exactly what she was insinuating, he looked at her in askance. “Her not being a sister has absolutely nothing to do with me, or her interest in me, or whatever it is you think has happened between us. Trust me, it’s not what you think.”

“No?” She seemed genuinely surprised, which made Malcolm wonder what the others were assuming. _Maker_.

“I have a wife,” he pointed out. “One whom I love very much. Sister Leliana, such as she is or isn’t, holds no interest for me.” Not to mention that thinking of her the way Adrian had implied was like thinking of a real sister that way. And beyond that was she’d been seeing his brother, and then there’d been the whole faking her death thing.

“No interest for you at all?”

She didn’t have to sound so _skeptical_. Just because he was away from his wife didn’t mean his eyes or his mind would start wandering toward other women, nor did he want to, at all. He wanted Líadan, not a substitute. He’d be fine until he was with her again, not that he could explain it properly to anyone else. “Not in the way you’re saying,” he said out loud. “The way her mind works, though? I’d love to know that.”

Adrian fussed with her cloak. “I just thought… you’ve been talking with each other an awful lot. All that whispering. Means what I’m thinking, in the Circle.”

“We have friends in common. We were catching each other up.”

“Oh. Well.” She shoved the base of her stave into the sand. “Now I owe Rhys ten silvers.”

Malcolm outright laughed, though he kept it quiet. “Don’t give him anything. He cheated. Feel free to ask him how.”

Her eyes narrowed as she glared at the brightening sky. “Oh, I will.”

He was about to say more when he noticed that he couldn’t see a single templar near Adamant. There was no sign of a camp. No sign of riders remained aside from divots left from hooves as they’d ridden northeast, entirely bypassing the protection and guidance of the iron towers. Dangerous, that. He wondered how many they’d started out with then, and how many they’d lost to the wasteland and the darkspawn.

The others were rousing behind them, complaining at being awake as they washed up, packed, struck tents, and ate a cold breakfast. 

“Gone, are they?” Rhys asked as they finally started riding for Adamant. The winds had picked up again, but slackened as they approached the fortress.

Malcolm scowled. “They never want to go inside to deal with the demons and abominations. Just slaughter everyone, not sort anything out, and call it a day.”

“You’ve experienced this sort of thing before, have you?”

“Kinloch Hold. Templars locked the doors and were waiting for everyone inside to die or become abominations. They just stood out there, protecting themselves instead of going in and protecting the people they’re sworn to protect.”

“You mean when the Fereldan Circle fell to blood mages during the Blight and was almost annulled? That incident at Kinloch Hold?” asked Adrian.

“Has there been another?”

“No, not that I know of.”

“Well, there’s your answer,” he said as they pulled to a halt just beyond where the wind had stilled. “Are we going in or not?”

“Demons in there,” said Rhys. “One, maybe more.” He frowned. “Probably more. Lots more.”

“Let’s go kill them, then.”

They dismounted to walk through the ravaged gates, silently watched from above by griffon statues scoured to shining. After glancing up at the statues just long enough to earn a glare from the sun right in his eyes, Malcolm paid no more attention to them, but not because of his momentarily spotty vision. Instead, the large number of bodies scattered through the fortress’ courtyard left him fumbling as he tied up Knock. He and the other horses, understandably, were not thrilled at being left there.

“Don’t worry,” Rhys said to the horses as they stamped their hooves and butted at the humans’ shoulders with their heads, “whatever killed these people is inside. Since we’re going inside and you’re staying out here, you’ve got the better deal.”

Malcolm barely paid attention, strongly reminded of the carnage at Redcliffe, from when Connor had been controlled by a demon. None of the memories were pleasant. The smell was much the same, though the occasional gusts of wind dissipated it enough to border on bearable, if one had been exposed to scenes like this before. While he, Wynne, and Leliana took the cloying smell in stride, showing no more reaction than a displeased face, Evangeline, Adrian, and Rhys covered their mouths and noses with arms or rags. Shale did nothing to hide her amusement at their plight. Finn took off to a corner to lose his breakfast, which the horses watched with mild curiosity.

“This is like Redcliffe,” Leliana said from beside him, softly enough that only he could hear.

He gritted his teeth to keep from snapping—this was a subject he’d actively avoided with her, because he knew it would give him problems in dealing with her civilly. “I don’t think you should ever mention Redcliffe to me again, unless I bring it up first.”

“I meant… before.”

“Either way, the suggestion still stands.”

She stared at him, her expression impossibly hurt somehow, but whatever unguarded truth within it disappeared almost as quickly. “There was a slaughter here.” Her eyes roved over the bodies, and then up to the gate doors that clung precariously to their rusted iron hinges. “On the backs of those doors, you can see scratches from people trying to get out.” She pointed at the dirt. “Track marks, there, from where the bodies were pushed aside when someone else entered. My guess is the templars who left in the night.”

Evangeline nodded. “That was my supposition, as well.”

Wynne walked over to check on Finn, grimaced, and then went to Malcolm as the others conferred. “Do you have any of that paste you use for recruits who have a hard time in the Deep Roads?”

“You mean the stuff we smear under their noses?”

“Yes.”

“Probably, somewhere in my things. Why? Oh,” he said as she saw her begin to narrow her eyes, “yes. Taking pity on Finn would be kind of me, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, it would. And we would be done faster. I do not wish to linger in this place. It is more volatile than I believed it would be.”

“Death on a massive scale tends to do that.”

“I could do with less of your humor.”

“But then I’d have to cry. You don’t want me to cry, do you?”

She lifted an eyebrow at him, and then pointed at the pack he’d left lashed to Knock. 

“You’re mean,” he said, and then did as she’d asked. She was mean this time of day, and she was right that not having to stop every few minutes to let Finn heave would hasten their pace by quite a bit. Finn at least was quite grateful for the solution, though the paste did leave a curious greyish streak under his nose.

Before Malcolm could comment on Finn’s new appearance, he heard guttural growls from the other side of the courtyard. “Oh, good,” he said. “I’d wondered where the welcoming party had gone off to.”

“It should stop,” said Shale, “before I stop it myself.”

As if Adamant wanted to further remind him of Redcliffe, undead corpses shambled toward them from the splintered doors of the main keep. Other corpses followed, rising from the ground as the first group passed them. Malcolm grabbed his shield and strapped it on, and then drew his sword. “Better ready yourselves,” he said. 

Evangeline had set herself in front, sword at the ready, while the mages summoned their first spells. Leliana had dashed for the wooden staircase leading to the top of the battlement, and then vanished into the shadows.

“Keep them away from the horses or they’ll tear them apart,” said Malcolm. “The rest of you, stay behind me or Evangeline. Don’t get any ideas about rushing in—they’ll be rushing to try to get you in the first place.”

One corpse bolted toward them, a rusty mace held over its head. Finn threw out a freezing spell that hit it straight on, but the corpse shook it off, grinned through a torn mouth, and kept running.

“One more thing—don’t bother using cold spells with them,” Malcolm said as he intercepted the corpse, knocked it down with the edge of his shield, and then cut off its head. “Feel free to use fireballs on them, though.”

“Oh, my favorite,” said Adrian, who then promptly dropped a sizable fireball in the center of the mob. Several writhed in the flames, some rolling into others and drawing them into it, but the corpses in front sprinted toward the humans at a faster pace, eager to escape the fates of the others.

Malcolm did his best to ignore the acrid smoke rising from the burning corpses, compounded by the putrid smell that already hung over them. Two corpses ran close to him, one on each side. He whirled with his shield to send one stumbling, and cut off the leg of the other as he spun. Evangeline finished the job with her sword, and then turned to fend off the corpses heading for her. 

One slammed into her before she could set herself, knocking her onto her back, her sword arm flinging out to the side where it did no good. Malcolm went to help. Three more accosted him on the way, and he could do nothing more than keep them from breaking his side’s small line of defense. The corpse on Evangeline went to choke her, but was thwarted by her gorget. It howled in rage, beat on her cuirass with its fists, and then jumped off Evangeline and onto Finn.

It found purchase with its hands around Finn’s neck and started to choke him.

Rhys whipped his stave around and struck the corpse in the head, hard enough to cave in its skull. Finn rolled the stilled corpse off him, grabbed his staff, and cast a lightning storm over the thinned crowd of corpses. Surprisingly, he never complained. 

Momentarily distracted by Finn’s plight, Malcolm didn’t catch the corpse sprinting straight for him until it’d sunk its claws and teeth into his sword arm. They barely penetrated the thick armor, but did just enough to cause searing stabs of pain where the fangs and claws punctured. He nearly dropped his sword as his hand spasmed, but he managed to maintain his footing and knee the corpse in the stomach. It stumbled, putting its arms out for balance. One flailing arm connected with Malcolm’s sword, sending it to the dirt. 

“Oh, come _on_ ,” he muttered at the lucky hit. His complaining turned to swearing as the corpse rounded on him again, battering against Malcolm’s shield. 

An arrow sailed down from above and hit the corpse in the eye, and it was quickly joined by an arrow to the other eye. Malcolm kicked the corpse away and picked up his sword again, then dashed off a quick salute with it to Leliana for the save. Thing would’ve likely eaten his face off if it’d pushed him to the ground, helm or no.

“Why am I so tired?” Evangeline asked as she threw a corpse down after it’d broken through her defenses. “This isn’t like me.” Another corpse ran up and practically gave her a hug, and that dropped her to her knees within moments.

“I’ve got her,” Wynne called as her rejuvenation spell hit Evangeline.

Malcolm pulled the corpse away and dispatched it. Then he had to lunge as far as he could with body and sword to keep another corpse from reaching the horses. It fell directly in front of Wynne and began to scrabble for her feet. Adrian ran over, brandishing her stave, but Shale had picked it up and thrown it back into the pile of its brethren before Adrian even got there.

Growling, Adrian made several complication motions with her hands and staff, and then lobbed another fireball at the rest of the corpses. 

None escaped. Shale glanced around, annoyed at having run out of things to squish. The humans breathed heavily, wiping at eyes stinging from sweat and smoke as the fire burned itself out on corpses reduced to cinder and ash.

After a cursory cleaning of his sword, Malcolm sheathed it so he could get out his waterskin. “Thank the Maker for dwarven ingenuity,” he said as he popped off his helm and poured some over his face to wash away the grime before it got in his eyes. Deciding a rest, however brief, would do him some good, he sat down right where he stood. He considered propping his shield up, but decided it would be just fine on the ground where he’d tossed it. Then he set to slowly drinking his water as he examined the damage done to his armor. He’d forgotten how much wounds caused by the undead burned under the skin. 

“One of them _bit_ you,” he heard Adrian say from behind him. 

“They do that,” Malcolm said absently as he poked at the wound. The corpse had gotten him really good on the inside of his elbow, where he’d only had his brigandine to protect him. It seemed the most likely culprit for why his hand had briefly not cooperated with holding his sword.

“Does this mean you’ll turn into one of them?”

He worked his finger through the hole in his brigandine, wincing when he accidentally hit the puncture wound underneath. “Not unless I die and a hunger demon decides to possess my body, no.”

“I’ll have to burn my robes,” Finn said.

“Does it have another set, or does it plan to prance naked through this fortress?” asked Shale.

“On second thought, I’ll keep my clothes on.”

“Better words were never uttered,” said Rhys. Then he bent to examine Evangeline’s injuries, first gingerly helping her in taking off her gorget. Without a shield, she’d taken a harder beating than Malcolm had during the fight. Even though the corpse that’d tackled her hadn’t managed to get a real hold on her, the bruising around her neck from what it _had_ gotten was extensive. “Sweet Maker,” Rhys said as he got a good look at the livid bruising.

“Not a word about my own bruises?” Finn was busily pouring water over the various stains on his robes and scrubbing with his fingers, but to no avail. His perpetual state of dirtiness had apparently gotten to him. “That thing _did_ get me.”

“And you healed it almost as it happened,” said Wynne. “Meanwhile, the Knight-Captain kept fighting despite her injuries.”

Uninterested in their bickering, Malcolm scowled at the holes in his brigandine. How did one even repair them? His own method was to give it to Wade, but what Wade did it afterward was akin to magic, for all he knew. His vambrace at least hadn’t been fully punctured. Instead, there were dents that jabbed inward against the brigandine, which in turn pressed rather sharply against his skin. Uncomfortable, but not dangerous or difficult to repair once he found an armorer. Of course, odds were that whoever had been the armorer around here had been just killed for the second time.

Maybe he could just leave the vambrace as it was. As long as he didn’t try to move it much, it was fine. Better than trying to struggle out of everything just to have it properly looked at. An elfroot potion would get rid of the burning, and the rest he could attend to later. He poked it again to test what’d happen if he accidentally bumped it, and then flexed his fingers for good measure. The action wasn’t pleasant, but it was bearable. It was his fingers that didn’t want to cooperate as much as he was accustomed to. A potion would probably fix that right up. He dug around in his belt pouch—out. Of course. 

His horse seemed really far away. Too far, which meant he’d probably had some energy drained out of him by one of the corpses, too. He scowled at his arm again and decided to wait. Eventually, he’d regain the energy to get up.

“Off with it,” Wynne said from over him.

He squinted up at her. “What?”

“I need to see how extensive the damage is to your arm, which means I need your sleeve not there.”

Malcolm slowly looked up at the keep, across the courtyard filled with smoldering corpses, and then to Wynne. “No. That would require taking of my vambraces, my cuirass, my gorget, then my brigandine and my shirt underneath. And there is no way I’m taking off _any_ of my armor out here, much less everything above my waist, not even if Andraste herself came down and asked me very, very nicely.”

“Was that blasphemy?” Rhys asked Evangeline. “I think that was blasphemy.”

“The Maker’s Bride never discouraged honesty or pragmatism,” said Leliana. “She was Fereldan, after all.” She gracefully jumped the last few steps from the battlements, her leathers bearing no evidence of having just battled undead monsters. “That said, I believe Andraste would advocate for promptness in healing, lest a wound turn septic. Perhaps you should listen to our most senior healer, yes? Off with your clothes.”

“Oh, no.” He pushed himself to his feet with his uninjured arm before Wynne and Leliana could double-team him. “No, no, no. You talking like that is going to give people _ideas_. The wrong ones. Lots of wrong ones. I’ll just let my wounds fester, thank you.” And now that he was on his feet, he felt that some of his energy had returned, and he took the opportunity to visit his pack that was still lashed to Knock. When he came up with an elfroot potion, along with two extras and a healing poultice he stashed in his belt pouch, he found Wynne frowning at him.

“Really, I’m not,” he said to her. “Glare at me all you want.” She didn’t relent and despite all he said to brush it off, she was starting to get to him. “Tell you what. Once we’re done with all this stuff here and we’ve made camp for the night—provided neither you and I are dead—you can heal up my arm any which way you want. Just not right now. If it makes you feel better, you can hit me up with one of your general healing spells, whatever those are. Should keep things from festering.” He grimaced at his first taste of the elfroot potion. Why did he always seem to forget they tasted bad? “Hopefully.”

“You live on hopefully, young man.” Even with her exasperation, she tossed a healing spell his way.

He grinned at her. “Seems to be working so far.”

Once they were all mostly healed and protection glyphs had been set around the horses, they went around the edge of the courtyard and into the main keep. The mages quickly banished the darkness by lighting their staves, which left the non-mages free to keep weapons at the ready. It was that kind of day. 

It didn’t help that Adrian kept jumping at every sound and shadow, which put everyone else on edge. 

“It is allowed to calm down,” Shale said to Adrian after she yelped again. “We have killed most of the creatures that would eat its face.”

“Most?” asked Finn.

“Should I have said all? I meant all, obviously.”

Adrian let out a sigh and then looked at Malcolm as they followed Wynne and Evangeline through the corridors. “Because I really want to get my mind off undead things that would love to tear me to shreds and feast on my flesh, I wanted to ask you something.”

“I already don’t like where this is going,” he said. “Is it about griffons? I’m all right with talking about griffons.”

“On about them again?” asked Leliana.

“It brought a book about them,” said Shale. 

“I brought it for Wynne, for your information,” said Malcolm.

“Stole it, you mean,” Finn said from behind them.

“Whatever.” Now Malcolm preferred whatever Adrian wanted to ask him. It couldn’t be as bad as anything the others could come up with, especially if the others were Wynne, Shale, or Leliana. “What did you want to know?” he asked Adrian.

“Are you one of the Wardens who fought during the Blight? Specifically, one of the Wardens who fought the Archdemon?”

Of course she wanted to bring that up right now. “I may have fought an archdemon, yes. Don’t recommend it. Besides, other people here fought one, too. Wynne did. So did Shale.” Leliana would have fought an archdemon if she hadn’t faked her death, but he left that part out. 

Adrian studied him for a moment as they continued to walk. “Are you—”

“For the love of Andraste,” Evangeline said, without even looking back, “he’s Prince Malcolm Theirin, King Alistair’s younger brother. Fought at his brother’s side in the Blight and the Fereldan Civil War and helped end both.” She halted and turned to face them. “Now that we’ve gotten that settled, could we please turn our full attention to the possible demons we might have missed?” She really couldn’t have sounded more harried and put upon if she’d tried.

“Fine, ruin all the fun,” said Rhys. “That could’ve gone on longer.”

“You could’ve told me sooner,” said Adrian.

“It wasn’t my place to tell.” Rhys glanced over at Evangeline. “Also, there’s just one demon left, far as I can feel.”

“I agree,” said Wynne. “And I believe I know where that demon lies.” She motioned toward a hallway that broke off from the main one they were in. “This way.”

Finn followed, but seemed less than thrilled. “How do you even know how to get around this place?” he asked Wynne as he ducked under a fallen beam. His back scraped lightly across the charred wood, leaving a long black streak. No one mentioned it.

“She has a map,” Malcolm said when it became clear that Wynne wasn’t going to play along.

“Really?” asked Adrian, even as Finn scoffed.

“It’s true. The Wardens have maps for everything. It’s just rare that we can find them when we actually need them. Usually, it’s after you need them that you come across them.”

“Was he like this during the Blight?”

“It was worse.” Shale shoved aside the burnt beam instead of ducking under it. “It has improved, over time, but not much.”

“Shale loves me,” said Malcolm. “Really.”

“That I have not crushed it says enough.”

Malcolm smiled, despite his helm probably hiding most of it. “See?”

“The insipid prince should not push its luck.”

“You allow the golem to call you that?” asked Evangeline.

Malcolm found it amusing that none of the mages gave a single shit about proper titles. “One,” he said to Evangeline, “Shale does what she wants. Two, if you ask her to call you something else, she’ll think of something worse.”

“She will,” said Wynne.

“The fussy mage speaks the truth.”

Rhys chuckled softly as he looked forward, toward Wynne and Evangeline. “Now I see why you let her call you the elder mage.”

“Not a word out of you,” said Wynne. “Not a single word.”

“What does she call you?” Adrian asked Leliana.

“She simply calls me ‘the sister.’”

“That is far less interesting than I expected.”

“Fortunate, I would say, given Shale’s nicknames for others.”

Wynne cleared her throat as she stopped and pointed at a door. “Pharamond’s laboratory is through there.”

They all fell silent. Beyond the door, it was quiet. 

Malcolm believed it rather ominous and most likely a poor decision to go in there, but groups like his current one seemed quite good at moving forward with poor decisions.

Evangeline studied the door, as if staring at it could reveal any danger lurking behind it. She pursed her lips when no answer came, and then asked Wynne, “You really don’t think he could be alive, do you?”

“I have seen it before with possession,” Wynne replied. “The demon sustains the possessed mage, even if they have not been fully possessed. If you want a more detailed explanation, I would be delighted to tell you, but I believe now is not the best time for a lesson.”

“I never thought I’d hear you say that,” said Malcolm.

“I think you should get it in writing,” said Finn.

After glaring the two of them into submission, Wynne motioned toward the door. “There is no point in delaying. The longer we dally, the less the chance we have of helping Pharamond.”

Inside, they were greeted with lit sconces and the scene of a neat and meticulously organized room that happened to have an abomination sitting patiently on a wooden chair in the middle of it. Malcolm gaped, but not at the abomination—he’d seen those before. He gaped because the room was so clean. Typically, abominations and the like tended to render rooms bloody, fleshy, and otherwise filthy.

“Is there such thing as a tidy demon? Maybe a demon of relentless organization?” he asked. 

“Not that I’m aware,” said Finn. “I’m fairly certain one would have approached me by now if there were.”

“Fortunately not.” Rhys pointed at a ring of runes chalked on the floor around the abomination’s chair. “Those are runes the Tranquil use. I hadn’t realized they could bind a demon that well.”

“Which means he did this on purpose.” Evangeline pointed her sword at the abomination, who’d remained surprisingly quiet so far. “This abomination is no accident.”

Leliana gently pushed the tip of Evangeline’s sword aside. “Perhaps we must consider that this may be an accident, for invited demons do not always twist the body so.”

“It was an outcome Pharamond clearly feared, and he prepared for it accordingly. We need to find out why he would foresee such a thing as a logical conclusion,” said Wynne.

“You should let me squish it,” said Shale.

“You want to squish everything made of flesh,” Malcolm said to her.

“It says it like it’s a bad thing.”

The abomination finally moved, but it was only to sit up straight and look directly at Evangeline. “Your Chantry method of castrating mages has failed you, templar.” A sick imitation of a smile pulled at one side of its malformed mouth. “What will you do now?”

The tip of Evangeline’s sword came back up as she took a threatening step toward the abomination. “Nothing has been proven.”

“Information doesn’t need to be proved, does it? Merely the rumor of a broken ritual will tear asunder your delicately balanced control. Were this to get out, I look forward to the chaos that will surely ensue.”

“I will not allow it.” Evangeline growled and started to lunge at the abomination. Rhys stepped in front of her, barely keeping from scuffing the runes with his feet. In response, Evangeline turned sideways to avoid cutting Rhys, lost her balance, and ended up on the floor, the blade of her sword slamming into the stones.

Rhys offered her a hand and a look of apology.

She glared at him in return.

“Aw, look at that,” said the abomination. “A mage helping a templar. Not something you see very often. Is it because you’re fond of the templar, mage? Do you dream of her like you once dreamed of the other mage? That flush on your cheeks tells me it’s true, even if you deny it.” 

“What?” asked a shocked, outraged Adrian. 

“Ignore it,” said Wynne.

Adrian waved her down. “Oh, no, I want an answer. How could you think that way of a templar sent to shepherd us to our deaths?”

“Ignore it,” Rhys said through gritted teeth. “It’s playing us against each other.”

“I’d say it’s working,” said Adrian. “Too bad if you have a schoolboy crush on the templar. She’s going to kill us to keep even this possibility a secret, so we’ll have to kill her first.” She hefted her stave and stalked toward Evangeline, who’d only just regained her footing.

Rhys put himself between them, a strange mirror to the situation the demon had hinted at. “No killing, not right now. Not before we find out what happened.”

“I vote for not killing each other, ever,” said Finn.

“Do not play into the demon’s hands,” said Wynne.

“You’re no fun,” said the abomination. He lounged in his chair as his eyes roved over the other choices of victim in the room. “Ah.” His eyes halted on Malcolm. “You might do, Grey Warden.”

Malcolm hated demons, especially when they tried to use him to create havoc. “Don’t even think about it,” he said to the abomination. “I don’t care what Wynne or anyone else says. If you start in on me, I will cut off your head, light you on fire, and dance around your burning body.”

“That… might have been a bit much,” said Finn.

Malcolm shook his head. “When you’ve dealt with as many obnoxious demons as I have, you’d think that not nearly enough.”

The demon laughed. “Oh, I like you. I’ll save you for last, mortal.”

“See what I mean?” Malcolm said to Finn.

“We’ll have to go into the Fade,” said Wynne. “If we’re going to find out what Pharamond did, then we’ll need to speak with him and not the demon possessing him.”

“I assure you, I am a lot more fun,” said the abomination. “All _this_ fellow wanted to do was research. He could hardly be bothered to eat. And have you seen how neat he keeps this place? It’s unnatural, I tell you.”

“Stop that,” said Adrian. “I liked you better when you were antagonizing.”

“Now he’s just making me confused,” said Malcolm. Abominations and demons weren’t supposed to speak sense.

Rhys nodded. “Right. Into the Fade we go. I assume he’s got a supply of lyrium available? With the Veil this thin, it won’t take as much as usual. Frankly, a sneeze gone wrong could get us there.”

Malcolm leaned up against the wall as the mages prepared their ritual. “These never end well,” he said as they mixed the correct potions and incanted various things. He’d watched enough where he knew he should know the ritual by heart, but he’d never been good at remembering magical things, especially in a specific order. “I know it’s the only way to kill the demon and not Pharamond, but these things never go well.”

“We have to try,” said Finn.

Wynne stopped pouring a half-vial of lyrium long enough to glare at Malcolm. “It did go well with Connor.”

Maker damn it, she had a point. He acknowledged it with a nod. “Fair enough.”

Yet, for Connor’s demon, it had been Morrigan who’d slain it. The other times, other people had gone in, and other people had fallen, or the circumstances around it had gone horribly wrong. Wynne and Anders had entered the Fade with Velanna to kill the demon in Malcolm’s dream during his strange, botched Harrowing of a non-mage. While Wynne and Anders had exited triumphantly, Velanna fell to a pride demon right after they’d killed the sloth demon. She never left the Fade, for Greagoir had killed her immediately. 

Or there’d been when Anders and Feynriel had gone into the Fade to kill the sloth demon after Líadan. They’d managed to kill it, only to end up in battle with a pride demon determined not to take control of Líadan, but her yet unborn child. Ava had been born not breathing, and had Emrys not done whatever powerful magical thing he’d done to save her, she never would have lived. In addition, there’d been the raging battle outside Marian’s estate in Kirkwall, because that was when the Qunari had decided to attack.

As Malcolm watched the mages slowly drift off one by one, he could only hope this time would go like the first, as Wynne had said, and not like the others. Wynne was his friend, strained though their friendship and trust was at the moment. The mages who’d traveled with them had become friends of a sort, too. He didn’t want to lose any of them in the fight with the demon they’d meet in the Fade. 

Perhaps Andraste would guide their steps, but he didn’t get his hopes up.


	21. Chapter 21

“It is said we owe much to the Sons of Betrayal. Three brothers were charged with girding against an Imperium in wait. And in mourning Andraste, we tribes of the crescent willingly bartered diversity for solidarity. Tevinter would not be defeated in Our Lady’s lifetime, but would be balanced against for lifetimes to come.

While a Son of Betrayal named the fields ‘Orlais,’ it was Jeshavis, his wife, who shaped what we are. Her hatreds were older, bound to tradition. All our hatreds were abandoned so we would call strangers to kin and stand as one against the Imperium. Greater her spite for how necessary the cost, because she knew we had a choice in that day, or no choice the next. She brought the marriage that wed tribe within tribe, but promised of untold vengeance of her own: if we stand against outsiders, we stand for ourselves. She would not suffer the rule of Alamarri, son or no son of Betrayal or Prophet.

Jeshavis plied brother against brother in turn, then named both as partners in crimes against faith. With artful turns she invited invasion, then crafted rebellion against the courts she inspired. Brother would kill brother and be killed in turn, two liberations that she would then own. Eight generations before the empire, before Drakon, here were the seeds of elegance to come. Jeshavis, twice married to Sons of Betrayal, twice widowed, our first chieftain born from us, of what would become true Orlais—where we venerate faith and the beauty of sacrifice, with daggers well hidden but well within reach.

It is true, we owe much to the Sons of Betrayal, for they were the tools that a master cast down. Let others claim credit for birthing the nation. Jeshavis claims nothing and gave us the Game.”

—translated from _Oer Gyðja Jethvis_ , a highly romanticized account of the first gyðja, or female chieftain, of the unified Ciriane tribes of Orlais

**Malcolm**

As soon as the mages had gone to the Fade, the abomination went silent, having departed the mortal realm to defend itself in its own.

Malcolm and the other non-mages had been left behind to stand watch. Except it turned out more like Evangeline kept watch like Cullen would have, while the rest of them waited for something bad to happen. Evangeline concentrated so hard on the sleeping mages that she barely moved. It was more unnerving than the abomination sitting nearby.

“Do you have to stand like that?” Malcolm asked.

Evangeline did not so much as look up from where she held her sword over the mages. “Yes.”

“You don’t think it’s a little dramatic?”

“No. I think it prudent.”

“I’m not sure which one is worse,” Shale said to Leliana. “The insipid prince or the righteous templar.”

“I missed you, Shale,” said Malcolm. “I really did.”

Shale shook her head. “Sadly, I did not miss it very much. Perhaps a small amount, for the comedy it provides.”

He pretended it wasn’t an insult, and really hoped the fight in the Fade wouldn’t take hours. The last time had taken forever, nearly an entire day, and it’d felt like longer. It had been Líadan in the Fade, along with Anders and Feynriel, years ago. Six years ago, to be exact, since Ava had been born during that mess.

Not the time to ruminate. Malcolm strolled the perimeter of the room, and then walked along the outside of the rune ring before stopping to study the silent abomination. The Tranquil brand on its misshapen forehead was of particular fascination, given that this was what it was supposed to prevent. The twisting and mutating of Pharamond’s elven body had nearly undone the brand’s design, but the impressions were still there, a declaration of the ritual’s ineffectiveness.

And it was so _quiet_. He felt a strange impulse to poke the abomination, just because he could and just because it couldn’t escape. Malcolm leaned in a little toward it, but Evangeline snagged his wrist.

“Do not touch it,” she said.

Shale laughed. “I see the righteous templar learns quickly.”

Malcolm yanked his arm back. “I wasn’t actually going to touch it.”

“No, you were not, because I was not going to allow you.”

Leliana cleared her throat. “The abomination, it changes.”

Indeed, it was. Claws shrunk back into fingers as gnarled flesh smoothed into what was the body of an older elven man, long white hair framing a long face, and the brand of Tranquility on his forehead unmarred.

When the elf opened his eyes, they were not the lifeless eyes of a Tranquil mage.

At first, they were wary. His fingers gripped the arms of the chair as he quietly looked around him, jaw dropping slightly at the sight of Shale, and then Malcolm, Leliana, and Evangeline. The mages were slowly getting to their feet, blinking at the brightness of the glowstones held by sconces on the walls.

“Another trick?” Pharamond asked, his voice scratchy.

It was likely he’d not had water for some time. Malcolm dug around for a waterskin as Wynne assured Pharamond that everything was real, and he was not in a demon’s thrall. Pharamond shouted with joy at the news, and then bounded about the room, touching and feeling everything, laughing while tears wet his cheeks. Malcolm stared, struck by the dissonance of someone with a Tranquil brand, who was supposed to have no emotions, seemingly experiencing them all at once. Pharamond continued dancing around the room until he smacked straight into Evangeline. The Knight-Captain still had her sword out, and she grabbed Pharamond roughly by the shoulder as he looked up at her.

“Tell me what you did.”

He grinned. “I reversed it! I cured it! Tranquility, that is. You know how it works, yes?”

“A Tranquil mage, with no connection to the Fade, offers nothing of appeal to demons,” said Rhys. “And so they are ignored, which renders them immune to possession.”

“Yet, you were possessed,” said Wynne.

Pharamond nodded enthusiastically, which Malcolm thought a poor idea, given his position. Evangeline didn’t seem very inclined toward mercy, nor did she seem to be afraid of using her sword on out-of-control mages. Which, when he thought about it, Pharamond seemed to be providing a great example of.

“Yes, yes, I was. But that came after. The part where I was cured came after I lured a demon—I had to lure it, you see, because the Tranquil are so loathsome to them—when it touched my mind, I was me again! My magic, my emotions, everything was me!”

“Can you do it again?” asked Adrian, sounding understandably eager. “Do the same for others?”

“Yes! But you have to know how to lure it or it won’t work.” Pharamond grinned again. “Isn’t this wonderful?”

“Yes and no,” said Rhys.

Evangeline had yet to let go of Pharamond. “You said the demon came after. Why?”

“He invited it,” said Wynne. The happiness that had been in her eyes at seeing her friend restored was now replaced by a look cold and calculating. The look of a woman who’d not thought a friend would invite a demon, and then found out that the friend not only indeed would, but _had_. It was a peculiar sort of treason, but treason nonetheless. “It was no accident.”

“I took precautions!” With both hands, Pharamond motioned toward the half-gone circle of runes. “Everything was contained!”

“Not entirely,” said Malcolm.

Finn elbowed him. “Not the time,” he whispered. “He’s liable to… I don’t know, blow up, maybe, if you told him what else happened. I really have no idea how he’d react. It’s honestly a little scary. Enough that I’m glad Evangeline is here.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t expected any of the mages with him to say that.

“You admit that you willingly agreed to take in a demon,” Evangeline said as she pushed Pharamond down to his knees.

His giddiness vanished as his eyes widened in dread, dread enough that his hands started to shake.

She drew back her sword.

“Wait! Wait!” shouted Rhys. “You can’t kill him.” When Evangeline turned a glare on him, Rhys rightly blanched. “Not right now. Maybe later, since he _did_ invite in a demon. But not right now. His research could still help with what it was supposed to. His mistake came after, not before, and we need to save whatever knowledge he gained.”

“My orders—”

“Fuck your orders,” said Adrian. While Rhys hadn’t moved from where he stood near the runes, Adrian put herself in between Evangeline and Pharamond. “You can’t just kill him, not now. Not with what he’s found. For Maker’s sake, he just regained the ability to feel. The possession could’ve been an honest mistake, because he hasn’t regained his equilibrium yet. Give him some time. It’s only fair.”

“Let him teach me his ritual before you take permanent action, Knight-Captain,” said Rhys.

“I believe he is right.” Wynne finally moved, taking only a few steps closer to the tense clump of Pharamond, Adrian, Rhys, and Evangeline. “My orders also supersede your own. Mine come from the Divine. Yours, I believe, only come from the Lord Seeker.”

Evangeline’s eyes swept over each of them, assessing, and then she sheathed her sword. “I serve the Chantry, which is led by the Divine. I will submit to her decision.”

“Right, so no one’s getting killed?” asked Finn. “And we’re going home? Is that what’s been decided? I rather like that choice, with the not dying and the going home, if anyone cares what I think.”

“I believe the finicky mage’s requests are reasonable,” said Shale.

As Evangeline put some distance between herself, Pharamond, Rhys, and Adrian, the others went through the supplies in the room, taking anything that would be useful. Malcolm doubted, as the rest surely did, that anyone would return, not for a long time. Too many dead, too thin a Veil, too many ghosts. If they hurried it up, he thought, they might even be able to get back to the first iron tower before the winds stilled. On the walk back, Rhys conferenced alternately with Malcolm and Adrian, and did not engage at all with Wynne. Whenever he happened to look at her, it was with a strange, hopeless sort of anger that Malcolm was really curious about, yet really didn’t want to get into. Trips to the Fade could reveal lots of things that people would rather others not know, and Malcolm had experienced that himself before. It was probably one of those things. Maybe Rhys had been scarred for life by seeing his conception or something.

Malcolm shuddered. Now _he_ was scarred for life just by thinking about it.

The next time Rhys walked next to him, Malcolm asked, “What sort of demon was it?”

“Which?”

“The one that possessed Pharamond and I assume you all killed in the Fade.”

“Pride demon. Killing it was a pain in the ass.”

Malcolm had more questions, mostly leading to the reason why Rhys was so mad. Then they stepped out of the main keep and into the courtyard where night had fallen, and conversation stopped.

Rhys let out an Orlesian curse. Wynne frowned at him for it, and if the situation hadn’t been so dire, Malcolm would have laughed.

At the sight of the mass of charred bodies, Pharamond let out a cry and dropped to the ground. He howled something about never meaning to, and then descended into gibberish, curling in on himself and his grief. There seemed to be no middle ground for him, only the most extreme of every emotion, sometimes up against each other, sometimes mixed up.

Malcolm was reminded of his children when they’d been toddlers, when they experienced life with the largest of emotions, the ups and downs in all their glory, yet had been absolutely unable to keep it together for a long amount of time.

Desperate as he was to get away from Adamant, Malcolm wasn’t sure if it was safe to attempt it in the dark. While the Veil was thin at the moment, the demon in control had been killed. Since it’d been a pride demon, that meant it would take a little time for the lesser demons to fill its territory. In the end, it meant that staying here, despite the rather large number of bodies scattered in the yard, was the safer bet.

Leliana made eye contact with him, and then walked over. “I believe it would be safest to go back inside, find a large, clean room, and have all of us sleep there, rather than out here.”

“I’m not of a mind to sleep with corpses,” said Malcolm.

“Is anyone?” asked Finn. Then he shook his head. “Nevermind. Don’t answer that. With all the strange things you’ve encountered, you might actually know someone who does.”

“The problem is, I don’t know where we’d find a decent room in this place, nor am I eager to explore.” Malcolm sighed and glanced over at Pharamond, whom Wynne and Rhys were trying to help get together. It wasn’t working. “Pharamond would know, but he’s rather indisposed.”

“Haven’t you been taking notes for your report?” Finn asked.

Malcolm frowned. “In a way, in my head. Mostly, they consist of, ‘demons, dead bodies, thin Veil, do not occupy, even the darkspawn won’t want it.’ Hardly anything helpful for finding a place to sleep tonight, but it will get the point across to the Wardens.”

Leliana looked between the two of them, then up at the keep, and then over at Pharamond. “I will see what I can do.” With that, she strode over to where Wynne sat with Pharamond crying into her shoulder.

“Think she can?” Finn asked Malcolm.

“Actually, I do think she can.”

And, somehow, she did. While Evangeline looked like she was going to try violence—slaps to the face often did a good job for bringing one back to the present, but with gloves and gauntlets on, it left remarkable bruising—Leliana had managed to talk him down and into some semblance of control. After the rest of them attended to the horses, Pharamond was clear-headed enough to lead them to a suite of rooms left untouched by the mayhem the pride demon had unleashed, complete with bathing facilities installed by dwarves, which meant baths, and meant no cold water baths, and meant no using a corner or a trench for a privy. The food was still cold, but they weren’t all crammed into one room, and they were able to take turns in getting the dust and grime and blood cleaned off. Not so bad, considering.

Adrian and Rhys, now neither one of them terribly thrilled with Wynne for some unknown reason, took one room, while Evangeline stayed with Pharamond in the central room. Pharamond had promptly passed out from exhaustion right in the middle of the main room as soon as he’d eaten. Again, it reminded Malcolm of a toddler, which was a really strange thought to be having about a grown man.

Finn seemed torn about where he’d sleep, but Malcolm intended on a sodding bed. He didn’t care who else shared the room with him, so long as he had a bed. The others could waffle over their arrangements all they wanted, but he wasn’t going to waste time wibbling when he could be sleeping. So he went into the third room, stacked his armor in a corner, did a cursory examination of the wound on his arm that Wynne had healed, and then collapsed onto one of the three beds.

Which meant that was when someone else decided on sleep, traipsed into the room, and Malcolm couldn’t not look to see who it was.

Wynne. Of course. It did make sense. While he had far more questions about Wynne’s motives and what she’d been up to over the years than he’d like, she was still one of his closest friends, and someone whom he could trust with his life. Besides, she was like a grandmother to him, so no one would think anything was untoward. _That_ was what had made Finn indecisive about his own sleeping arrangements, knowing there was a third bed in the other room, but totally not knowing what was going on with Adrian and Rhys.

“Any idea why Rhys is so mad at you?” he asked Wynne as she sat on one of the other beds.

She sighed, long and weary. “He and the others discovered the spirit that sustains me. Rhys is understandably the most upset.”

“Well, it isn’t every day that a son finds out his mother is an abomination.”

When Wynne’s eyes looked hurt instead of amused, Malcolm belatedly realized she was a lot more sensitive to it than he’d first thought. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That was mean. I was just trying to get your spirits up a little.” He nearly hit himself for that one, but sat up to clear his head to make sure he didn’t do it again. “Maker, that’s not what I meant, either. I’m not using puns to make light of it. I just meant—”

But now Wynne’s mouth had quirked up a little in the ghost of a smile. “It’s all right. You meant well, but you stepped in it, and then kept digging. You wouldn’t be who you are if you didn’t.”

His brow furrowed. “You sound like Líadan.” His hands started to fidget, wishing he’d gotten out a book so he’d have something tactile to distract himself with or to remind him of who he missed.

With his comment, her smile grew a little more. “Nothing wrong with a reminder.” Then the smile fell away, and she moved to sit on the end of his bed, close, but not close enough that it would feel strange. “Speaking of, there’s something I have to tell you.”

“I honestly have no idea where this is going. None at all.”

She patted his hand. “Not so bad as you might think. While we were in the Fade, we somehow got split up at first. As I searched for the others, I came across a Dreamer. Not that boy, Feynriel, but—”

“Was it Emrys?”

Her lips pursed just enough to inform him that she was holding back on a good scolding for his interruption. Then the hardness faded, and she returned to her usual expression of a kind healer.

The change made him nervous, and he couldn’t rightly explain why, even as he tried to stop his heart from beating so quickly.

“Yes, I believe it was him,” said Wynne. “First, a pride demon controlled Pharamond, which you know means no other demons would dare be present. Second, what he had to say would aid no demon when it comes to me.”

He stared at her in dread when he realized she’d stopped there. “Don’t make me ask.”

“Emrys told me that the Mahariel clan has been killed, down to the last elf.”

Malcolm started to jump to his feet—to do what, he wasn’t sure, maybe ride hard and fast to the nearest port—but Wynne had already grabbed his wrist to keep him seated. “Dashing off does no one any good. Emrys was able to stay within the demon’s dream long enough to tell me about the Mahariel, and long enough to start to tell me something more before he was pulled away. He looked upset, but I don’t believe he spoke with enough urgency for Líadan to be dead or in immediate danger. I imagine he’d have tried to reach you, if that were so.”

“That’d be a first.” He still fought the urge to leave right away, his rapid heartbeat hadn’t slowed much, and he kept searching around the room like he was trying to find an escape. “He didn’t say either way, so the possibility is… Where could she even be? I don’t know what route she would’ve taken. I don’t even know what port she used. Maker, this was a horrible plan. We never should have gone through with it.” He looked directly at Wynne. “And not for the reasons you’ve been bringing up, either.”

She let go of his wrist. “This isn’t a wound salt should be poured into, not when it involves people whom I care about, as well. You need to find them, but you need to keep a clear head. Think about all the routes she could have taken and the best way to cover them. Think of how you’ll get a message to the Wardens, and others to Alistair and Fergus. I believe you’ll find Ferelden with troops to spare to aid in the search. Perhaps even the nominal search parties Alistair and Anora sent out could begin a real search.”

Malcolm laughed a little. “You’re talking about poor Kennard sent on a wild goose chase?”

“Yes, I am. I daresay he’d probably appreciate doing something more helpful.”

“Probably.” He went to say more, but a yawn interrupted him, even through his worry. “Speaking of,” he said, “valuable sleep time is being lost, and that’s why I got in here so fast in the first place. Go find your own bed, not-old-woman. There’s two more in here. I’m not sharing.”

She chuckled and left him to rest.

It took him far too long to fall asleep and, in the Fade, Emrys was waiting for him.

The Keeper gave not even a cursory greeting. “The healer of yours told you I spoke with her?”

Malcolm studied Emrys for signs of distress, barely noticing the serene copse of trees that gave structure to this portion of the Fade. “Are they really all dead?”

“Hunters of the passing Iahmel clan informed their Keeper of such, and Keeper Marethari’s presence in the Beyond has not been seen for some time.”

“What about—”

“Líadan is alive.”

“How do you know?” Emrys seemed so _sure_ , and unless he’d spoken with her face-to-face, he couldn’t know, not really. Could he? Then again, Emrys’ presence and words went a long way to prove that his original talk with Líadan in the Fade had been him and not a demon.

Emrys outright frowned at Malcolm’s disbelief. “She is my granddaughter. I would know if she were dead. As such, I do not believe she was with the Mahariel when they were killed.”

Malcolm waved his hand toward the Fade around them. “Can’t you just contact her like this?”

“No. She is… particularly difficult to locate in the Beyond. You are strangely not, if you are sleeping where the Veil is perilously thin.”

“You never noticed this before?”

“I was never given a real reason to look for you before.”

As much as Malcolm didn’t want to acknowledge it, and Emrys probably didn’t either, Líadan wasn’t the only mage in their family whom Emrys could reach. “What about Ava? If you’re protecting her like Líadan told me, then shouldn’t you be able to ask her?”

“Feynriel and I have not been able to protect her for some time.”

He said it far too calmly for Malcolm to accept, and his temper rose in response, even as his rational side told him that Emrys wouldn’t let harm come to her, not after all the energy he’d expended helping her take her first breath on Thedas. “Then how?”

“There is a being—I cannot even be sure it is a spirit—that has chosen to watch over her, and it does the same with her brother. I believe it is of good intent, but one can never know for certain. However, it has done well in keeping away the spirits with obvious dark intentions. She is safe, for now, at least in mind. As for the rest, I do not know, which is why she and _Asha’belannar_ ’s grandson and Líadan must be found.”

Meanwhile, there was nothing Malcolm could do, not this far away from wherever they were, and now instead of thinking his family safe because of his and Líadan’s sacrifices, they could be anything but, and he couldn’t protect them. “So you’re telling me, the stupid shemlen you hate, why? Just to torture me? Because you already were by keeping me separated from them, and now you’ve made it infinitely worse. Well done. You’ve shown the shem his place.”

Emrys studied him for a moment, and then let out a nearly imperceptible sigh. “I do not hate you, human. I do not like you, nor do I like what place you hold in my granddaughter’s life, yet I do not hate you. It pains me to say it—pain you will never understand—but it is because of my granddaughter’s love for you that I cannot bring myself to hate you. I learned that painful lesson with her mother, and I will not repeat it.”

Malcolm almost fell over. He’d never expected that sort of answer from Emrys, and especially never spoken with that amount of honesty. “So it _was_ you who told Líadan about Ava. Not a demon.”

“No, I was not a spirit, but she was correct to assume so. And I was…” Emrys managed to look briefly troubled, his brow furrowing just long enough to show a glimpse of his true age. “I was wrong, human. I was wrong to insist that she leave you behind.”

Malcolm raised his eyebrows. He _really_ hadn’t expected to hear that. Not the ‘I was wrong,’ and definitely not the other part.

Emrys let out a brief noise that sounded impossibly like a short laugh. “I had not thought I would say so after her actions, yet Lanaya has proven her worth as a Keeper. As a result, I have been made to see some of the errors of my ways, and separating bondmates is one of my mistakes. Separating children from one of their parents is another. While I may not approve, it does not change the truth that you are the father of both children, that you have proven a true bondmate to my granddaughter, and it is not any Keeper’s duty to insist on a separation. I knew Líadan’s initial worry over Ava would stop her from questioning any condition I placed on her gaining my help, and I took advantage of it in order to separate you. I was wrong.”

It was almost nice to hear it. Almost, because if Emrys had come to this conclusion weeks earlier, then Malcolm’s family wouldn’t have been taken apart. “Fat lot of good that does me now.”

Emrys’ eyes flashed with irritation, yet his words remained evenly spoken. “It will do you good when she is found. You may continue on with her to my clan, if you wish. I believe I have found a way to mitigate the impact one mortal human will have on the longevity of my clan. What I cannot promise, however, is anything beyond basic civility from the Suriel.”

“I’ll take it.” If it meant he could be with Líadan and Cáel and Ava, he’d suffer through anything.

“First, she must be found. While some Dalish have been sent out to search, your aid will be necessary. You will know how to handle shemlen better than the Dalish, and it is not out of the realm of possibility that they have been taken by the Chantry.”

Malcolm’s hands went cold. “I thought you’d lost track of them, not that they might’ve been _captured_. For fuck’s sake, do you realize what sort of danger they’re in if they were?”

“Of course I do!” Emrys shouted, and then immediately composed himself on seeing Malcolm’s genuine shock. “Of course I do, and that is precisely why I require your aid.”

“Then you have it,” said Malcolm, as if it weren’t a foregone conclusion. Emrys’ reaction had shaken him more than he’d thought, to see a man so meticulously composed appear outwardly angry. No, not anger, not that sort. Emrys was afraid, and the fear expressed itself as anger, as even Malcolm had inadvertently done many times before.

“Do not just take off. You must plan accordingly.”

He scowled. “I know. I’m not stupid.”

“No, but you are worried. Worry makes people do stupid and impulsive things that, when in another state of mind, one would know and do better.”

“Speaking from experience, are you?”

“Perhaps, yet that is neither here nor there. Now, you must use whatever human contacts you have and get as many people as you trust to search alongside you. Think of it as a hunt—move too quickly and loudly, and your crashing about in the forest will inform your quarry what you’re up to. You must go slowly enough to strategize, and then when you move, move quickly and quietly, and end it with a single strike.”

It hurt to hear the metaphor from Emrys, said with the light lilt the Dalish accent lent to the common tongue. Not only did the accent remind him of her, but she often used hunting metaphors when trying to explain things to him. It sometimes worked. “Líadan’s the hunter, not me.”

“Then let us hope you’ve learned something through observation, because your typical thrashing about will do none of us any good.”

He sounded like Morrigan. That was exactly the kind of sentence Morrigan would have said, and thrown as a barb in exactly the same way. Not for the first time, Malcolm wondered at the possibility of who Emrys was to Morrigan. He set it aside, knowing his mind wanted to think about that because it meant he didn’t have to think about not being able to find Líadan and their children immediately. “So you really don’t know where she is?”

“No. I would not ask for your aid if I did.”

Malcolm looked up at the Black City as he tried desperately to control his own fear. When he returned his gaze to Emrys, he did nothing to control what he said. Emrys could take it, and Malcolm needed to let something out. “You don’t like not knowing things, do you?”

“No one does, human. You, of all people, should know that.”

He took the dig, because wasn’t like he hadn’t started it. Then he loosed a half-strangled laugh. “To be honest, I think I preferred it when you knew everything, and were right about it, too.”

“As did I.” The Fade changed around them, returning to the bare dreamscape instead of the calming forest grove. “Now, go. If you sleep again in a place with the Veil this thin, I will speak with you once more. Until then, may the Dread Wolf never catch your scent.”

Malcolm awakened into the dim light of a quarter-lit glowstone, to Wynne and Leliana speaking in low tones about Maker knew what. Probably best-friends-of-the-Divine things, about which he would have to have a serious talk with them when all this was over. Once, he might have cared immediately, but he didn’t anymore. When he sat up, both women turned to look at him in surprise.

“We need to get back to Val Royeaux,” he told them.

“That is where we’re heading, if you didn’t hear our plans,” said Wynne.

He shook his head. “We need to go back faster.” Like right then, but he couldn’t seem to get the urgency across.

“The conclave isn’t for a few weeks, if you’re concerned about the mages missing it,” said Leliana.

“I don’t care about the conclave.” At Wynne’s surprised look, he tried to explain. “I care enough to get you and the others there, but—”

Wynne’s expression quickly shifted from surprise to concern as she cut him off. “What’s happened?”

“I saw Emrys in the Fade. I’m sure it was him. I don’t think a demon could really perfectly capture his strange mix of condescending ass and caring Dalish Keeper. He told me the same as you, Wynne, that the Mahariel were all killed—” He paused at Leliana’s sharp intake of breath, but when she said nothing, he continued. “He thinks Líadan is still alive. We need to find her. I need to find her and the children. The Dalish are looking for her in the forests, but Emrys hasn’t set aside the possibility that they’ve been captured and taken to a Circle or held within a Chantry.”

“We will travel as quickly as we can,” said Wynne. Behind her, Leliana nodded.

They managed four towers that day, and five the next, yet it still didn’t feel fast enough. The not knowing plagued Malcolm, not knowing if they were all right, not knowing if he should be searching for them out in cities or traveling or in a Circle or worse.

The only person more wracked than him was Pharamond, struggling with handling the memories and their accompanying emotions of everything he’d experienced while Tranquil. It hadn’t been that he hadn’t experienced emotions, he’d merely been cut off from them, and they were subsequently stored somewhere in his mind. Now, they’d been unleashed, and Pharamond’s will and control was sorely tested. There were several times when he nearly failed that test, despite Evangeline’s surprisingly patient attempts at teaching him to meditate. If his shouts and screams were anything to go by, even new Wardens fared better in their sleep. After nights with the worst of them, Pharamond retreated within himself, refusing to speak to anyone when he was like that, aside from Rhys.

Because he couldn’t predict his control, Pharamond would only agree to teach his ritual to one mage at a time. So Rhys spent much of their journey back in conference with Pharamond, deep in discussion of what steps Pharamond had gone through to cure his Tranquility. Pharamond did not explain why he’d agreed to the demon’s possession, nor did Malcolm hear Rhys ask.

They passed through the badlands in one day, their group reaching the Imperial Highway near sundown. While Evangeline was distracted by helping Pharamond re-establish control over his emotions after a particularly awful and loud regression, Wynne pulled the others together to explain their next steps.

“I’m sending Shale to the Circle at Montsimmard to tell them of Pharamond’s partial success. Then they can use a sending stone to contact the White Spire to inform Edmonde of our return.”

“A sending stone?” asked Malcolm.

“We’ve been studying magic for hundreds of years,” said Adrian. “You don’t honestly think that we rely on messaging via rider or bird, do you?”

“I suppose not, no. But you don’t have to be so condescending about it, since people who aren’t members of the Circle aren’t exactly told these things.”

“Don’t you think Evangeline will object to this?” asked Rhys.

“Of course she would, which is why we are not asking for her permission,” said Wynne.

“The elder mage is proving a rebel in her twilight years,” said Shale. “I will go tonight. I see no point in delay, since I do not require sleep as you weak creatures of flesh do.” She looked down at Wynne. “Shall I meet it in Val Royeaux?”

“Please.”

Malcolm jumped at the chance to get an almost secure message out. “Maybe you could—”

“No.” Leliana shook her head as she stopped him. “It is not the time. There are First and Senior Enchanters who play the Game, and they would not hesitate to use the information to their advantage.”

With no additional requests made, Shale departed, heading toward the eastern side of Lake Celestine, where Montsimmard waited. Knight-Captain Evangeline frowned at them for their little clandestine meeting, and then scowled at realizing Shale had left. Malcolm wondered if he should’ve gone with Shale, but knew that he had to make sure Rhys and Pharamond survived to teach the ritual to other mages. Evangeline could mostly be trusted, but her fellow templars were another story. The mages in their group would be in danger once they got to Val Royeaux. Leliana’s presence added some security, but Val Royeaux was a large city, and there was no telling what the Lord Seeker would do when he discovered that Evangeline had not followed his orders. Then again, she _had_ been countermanded by the Divine, which had to hold some sort of weight with him. He hoped, though he hadn’t much of it left to spare.

Once they reached the outskirts of Velun, Malcolm volunteered to take first watch with Leliana. He needed her special sort of help, or he wouldn’t even know where to start looking.

“I need you to find out,” he said as soon as they were settled.

As though he’d gone through a lengthy explanation, she expressed no confusion over what he was talking about. “I will do what I can once we return to Val Royeaux, but I cannot promise that I will be able to find her or your children. Perhaps they are not within a Circle at all, nor a Chantry, but merely traveling to another Dalish clan.”

“I’m not that optimistic. You’ve gotten me confused with my brother.”

Her smile was part amusement, and part pain, but she said nothing.

Malcolm gave her a curious look at her silence, but then went on. “Why Val Royeaux? Why not sooner? We’ll be in Velun tomorrow, or we could _not_ avoid Val Foret this time and send messages from there, if Velun isn’t good enough.”

She shook her head. “If someone has them and you act too soon, they will be warned and you will never find them.”

“A little more optimism, please. You’ve swung too far the other way.”

“I am telling you the reality of the situation.” She frowned as if she didn’t like it, but she didn’t stop. “If you wish to find them—especially if they need to be liberated—then you must proceed with caution. You must plan and then execute. You must not go charging into this like you would with your shield in battle.”

“You make it sound like your Grand Game.”

Her look became even more serious, and she took his hands in hers. “Malcolm, if a Circle has them, then it will _be_ the Grand Game.”

“I’m not good at that game.”

“I know. Theirins never are, and I doubt they ever will be. Nor will you need to be. I am good at the Game, and I promise that I will help you.”

“I want to trust you. I do.” But he didn’t like that it felt as if he was being left with no choice. It was trust her, or not heed her warnings and go gallivanting off, and never find his family at all. Then he would blame himself until his Calling, and then after.

She squeezed his hands once before letting go. “In Val Royeaux, I will make quiet inquiries through my contacts. Once we know for certain if your family is being held by a Circle or chantry, then messages can be sent to the Wardens and Alistair. But you must believe me, if we sent messages too soon only to find that they have been captured, then whoever holds them may act rashly or go underground when Wardens and Fereldan armies begin to march.”

“Alistair would send an army, wouldn’t he?”

“Yes. As would the Wardens, for they could not allow a Warden mage to remain prisoner of the Chantry, if they hold her.”

He had no other contacts. He had no other way of finding out faster where his family was. Searching every chantry and Circle, or hoping the Dalish found her and the children in the forests or with another clan, would take far too long. “I’m trusting you,” he said. “I’m trusting you with the lives of the people I love the most. Please don’t prove unworthy of that trust.”

She nodded and then turned her attention to the sky. They spent the rest of their watch in silence. Adrian and Wynne relieved them to start second watch, and they retired to separate tents. Malcolm felt a little hope, that maybe connections hadn’t been entirely broken, that perhaps some words spoken hadn’t been entirely empty.

The next morning, Leliana was gone.


	22. Chapter 22

“The templar came to Lothering, where the world gathers at the edge of the Wilds. There he met a woman, a mother that had been telling her child of the dangers of the great forest. ‘Yes, I know of her,’ said the mother. ‘She is a creature of legend, a cautionary tale of the limits to where man should go. Not even a powerful templar can kill a warning, ser.’ But the templar was sure that the Witch was more than just a symbol, and so he continued his quest.

And then the templar entered the Korcari Wilds, home to the savage Chasind people, and he found a village elder, a cracked and bent old woman who was willing to speak in his language. ‘She steals men’s souls at the end of the green,’ said the crone, ‘where hearts turn to ice and blood runs blue. Even a templar dare not go after her, for the land bends to her will, and that templar’s life will be drawn before his sword.’ But the templar bristled against such doubt of his skill and the Maker’s glory and he charged off to find the witch.”

—excerpt from _The Witch of the Wilds_ , as told by the minstrel Ensuelo

**Líadan**

One of Líadan’s morning instructors had gotten the idea that he could teach her how to heal. This led to several mornings of frustration as the healer insisted he could teach her, and she proved that he could do no such thing.

“You’re not applying yourself,” Gratian declared after Líadan’s fifth attempt to heal a small cut on the Senior Enchanter’s finger.

“I’m applying plenty. None of it will change the fact that I can scarcely heal.”

“Perhaps you haven’t had the right teacher.”

She raised an eyebrow. “No? If you don’t think a Dalish Keeper a good instructor, then how about Wynne of the Fereldan Circle? If not her, then Anders, from the same Circle? Both have tried their hand at teaching me. Neither of them succeeded.”

Gratian ran his hand over his cut finger, leaving behind a swath of healed skin. “Well…” He frowned, and his black eyebrows pressed together enough to resemble one single brow. “Those would be very good teachers.” He tapped his hand on the table a couple times then shuffled his feet; Gratian never sat down for lessons. “What sort of magic are you good at?”

She shrugged. “Lighting a campfire, I suppose. Though I can light one just as easily without it, even in incredibly damp conditions. I’ve got lightning that shocks instead of damages, most of the time. If I’m with other mages, it’ll do some damage, but I’m better for strengthening their casting. That’s about it. There’s a reason why I use a bow. Several, actually. One for each arrow.”

“That is… very unlike your daughter.”

“I’m aware.”

And still, Gratian wouldn’t believe her. He tilted his head to the side, his brows looking to Líadan like a furry black caterpillar over his eyes. “And you’re certain this isn’t because of a lack of motivation on your part?”

Líadan imagined picking up the basket of elfroot and upending it over Gratian’s head. She wouldn’t because she wasn’t a child, but imagining it helped her keep her temper. “I don’t know,” she said out loud. “Is your inability to teach me a lack of motivation on your part?”

With a scowl, Gratian pushed himself away from the table and dismissed her.

Her session with Senior Enchanter Pauline went no better. Pauline had been given the responsibility of teaching her the basics of magic and spell-casting, which was both ridiculous and insulting. Pauline preferred to give her lessons in a small solar a floor above the dormitories. She would sit cross-legged in the middle of the lush carpet, serene as all the world and Líadan hadn’t yet been able to crack the woman’s peaceful exterior.

Today was wisps. Today might be the day that Pauline broke, because while Líadan could certainly _summon_ them, that was about as far as she got. It’d been useful during the Blight with darkspawn and bandits, and she’d used that trick before and after, summoning wisps to draw off unwary foes. The wisp led them off cliffs and into freezing cold rivers, but only because it wanted to, not because it listened to anything Líadan asked of it.

It was the lesson Pauline learned that day.

“You did not keep control of your wisp,” she said as another flounced through the open doorway.

Ser Keran had been startled the first time. Afterward, he took their appearances in stride.

“Really?” asked Líadan. “Is that what happened?”

“This is the third time you’ve let one flit off.”

Líadan glanced pointedly at the door. “You should probably track them down, lest they lead some poor mage into a wall in a dark corridor. Could lead to a broken nose. But they won’t be led off a cliff or forever lost in the forest while they’re in a Circle, so there’s that.”

Pauline gave her a flat look, and then sighed. “You are most infuriating. Your scholastic knowledge of magic is impeccable. However, your ability to wield magic falls short of your intellectual ability by a considerable amount.”

“Now you know how my Keeper felt when she was my teacher.” It wouldn’t do much good to explain how incredibly outclassed Líadan had felt with Merrill as the only other student. It’d taken her a while to get over her frustration and somewhat bruised ego, and she hadn’t quite worked it out even by the time she’d left the clan and joined the Wardens. But she had worked it out when she saw Merrill again for the first time, in Kirkwall.

She hoped her clanmate was still alive and well.

“What did your Keeper do with you?” asked Pauline.

“Once I learned proper control, she let me go back to being a hunter.”

“A hunter.” Pauline clasped her hands together and rested them on her legs. “You’re a mage.”

“I’m a better hunter.”

The Senior Enchanter pursed her lips, either showing distaste or that she was perplexed. Líadan could never figure out which. “Is that how you killed all those templars?”

“I’m sure being a Grey Warden also had something to do with it.”

“Why are you here?”

“Because I made a stupid mistake and Meredith capitalized on it rather quickly. Or were you talking about here, wasting our time? That’s because Orsino and Meredith thought I should be treated as an apprentice, which means having lessons like any other apprentice.”

“Not that I want to sound negative, but… I think I might agree with you on this being a waste of our time.” Pauline glanced down at her hands, where she’d summoned a tiny wisp and had it darting about her fingers. Then she sighed and sent the wisp back to the Beyond. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t be a better teacher.”

Líadan had already gotten to her feet, feeling a bit better at someone finally having agreed with her. “I’ve heard that a lot of times. It doesn’t bother me, especially when someone’s finally understanding what I’m saying.” She took a step toward the open door and then stopped. “You still might want to track down those wisps, though.”

When she reached the corridor, Ser Keran gave her a curious look. “You didn’t do that on purpose, did you?”

“Which?”

He gestured with his hand. “The thing with the wisps, where they kept taking off down the hall. You weren’t lying to Senior Enchanter Pauline, were you?”

“If I could control wisps, templar, I would’ve done way more fun things with them than send them down the hall.” Did they think she had no imagination? They might, she admitted to herself. She hadn’t been very forthcoming, nor had she really indicated much of her true sense of humor. But it wasn’t like they made it easy, since they kept her locked up, not even letting her outside at all.

Keran nodded. “All right, that was a stupid question.”

Líadan smirked a little, but didn’t rub it in any further. She headed for the dormitory, really having nothing better to do except wander the corridors and become even more restless. Right after they turned the corner into the large common area that served as a major intersection, Líadan saw Cullen starting to enter from the corridor to the right. Líadan bolted from Ser Keran, swung into the other hallway, grabbed Cullen by the sides of his breastplate and heaved him into the wall—she seemed to be doing a lot of that lately, but they weren’t letting her outside, much less practice weapons forms or even just _run_.

“Where are they?” she asked.

Cullen took the manhandling in stride, only letting out a weary sigh as he carefully pried her hands from his cuirass. “I promise you that they are safe. The templars assigned to them are ones I would not only trust with my own life, but Marian and Bethany’s lives, as well. Carver would agree with me, were he here.” When she didn’t reply, he took the initiative. “Some of those templars told me you tried to run right after you woke up.”

“And you were expecting something else?”

He squinted as if in thought. “Well… no, now that you mention it. Even then, you need to listen to me. Please don’t try to escape.”

“No? Watch me.” Or not, rather, but the implication was the same.

“Do you really think you could get away? I’m a templar. I’m the Knight-Captain and even I can’t get out. If you try, even once, Knight-Commander Meredith won’t hesitate to make you Tranquil.”

Líadan was tempted to roll her eyes. “She’s already threatened it, yet I certainly don’t look Tranquil.”

Cullen massaged his forehead with his fingers, as if trying to chase away a burgeoning headache. “Believe it or not, she _is_ giving you time to change your mind. Her patience is not infinite, however. Sooner or later, she will make you choose. If you try to escape, that choice come much sooner. And by ‘much sooner,’ I mean she will immediately make the choice for you and you will not like it.”

“What about—”

“There’s nothing we can discuss.” His eyes shifted to the throng of mages in the intersection. “Not right now.”

“Right. Of course.”

He nodded. “Be on your way, apprentice.”

Líadan walked away without argument.

In the dormitory, she found a blissful silence with the other apprentices still being in their lessons. It felt like the first lengthy silence she’d had for days, and she told Ser Keran to be as unobtrusive as possible. “Keep your questions to yourself and just let me think.” He half opened his mouth to ask a question—he asked a lot, and Líadan was always reminded of Alistair—but thought better of it and nodded. She strode down the aisle between the lined up bunks until she got to the one at the end, where she’d been given a bottom bunk. She’d also been given a trunk that she hadn’t bothered locking, either mechanically or with a spell, because it was for her belongings. Anything she had now was from the Circle. It was not hers, and so she did not care if it was stolen from the wooden trunk. The only possessions she had left were the ones worn around her neck.

The blanket on her bunk was scratchy—didn’t these people know about soft wools?—the pillow flat, the mattress underneath nothing more than a straw tick. But none of those things mattered at the moment because it was so wonderfully quiet. She sat down on the bunk, drew up her legs and crossed them, and then let her mind wander toward an actual plan of escape.

Which meant that apprentices started to return from their lessons minutes later.

She kept her eyes closed, hoping it enough a hint for them to at least leave her alone.

It didn’t work.

The young and excessively outgoing human mage who slept in the bunk above hers scrambled up, and then stuck her curly, dark-haired head over the side to look at her. “Líadan.”

Líadan ignored her.

“Líadan.”

She kept ignoring her. Maybe, for once, Sylvie would get the message.

She didn’t. Sylvie poked Líadan’s nose. Líadan snapped out her hand and caught Sylvie by the wrist. “I do not like to be touched uninvited.”

Sylvie remained unaffected. “Your tattoos look funny upside down. What are they for?”

“To set my people apart from the humans and the city elves.” That she did not say ‘shemlen’ and ‘flat-ear’ said a lot about how far she’d come since she’d been the young hunter who’d first received her _vallaslin_. “It reminds us that never again will we surrender our traditions and beliefs. It means,” she said slowly as she opened her eyes and released Sylvie’s wrist, “that I am Dalish.”

“Oh. I’m sure I knew that. Read it somewhere.” Sylvie’s face was slowly turning red as she insisted on remaining upside down. She tilted her head to the side. “Have you ever killed a human?”

Líadan contemplated telling her the story of the three humans she and Tamlen had encountered in the Brecilian Forest years ago, and the fates of those humans, just to get Sylvie to leave her alone once and for all. Yet, she didn’t want to continue perpetuating the false myths that circulated about the Dalish. But she couldn’t resist putting the other woman off balance. “How else are we supposed to sacrifice human children to the Creators?”

Sylvie’s eyes widened and her hand covered her mouth. “I thought that was a myth!”

“Because it is.” Líadan sighed. “Yes, I’ve killed humans. Mostly bandits.”

“With your magic?”

“Arrows.”

“Oh.” Sylvie, now disappointed somehow, flipped herself around and dropped to the ground. “Do the Dalish do a Harrowing with their mages?”

“Of course not. It’s useless and barbaric.” What bothered Líadan most about these older adolescents—some practically adults—was the heavy fear blanketing all of them, a fear directly driven by the Harrowing awaiting each one.

“So… the Dalish really treat their mages like regular people?”

“For the most part. Usually, they’re Keepers or Firsts, but they have the same rights and privileges as any other elf.”

“That means you could marry, right?”

“Yes.”

“Are you married?”

_Creators_. It never ended. Even Cáel and Ava hadn’t been this persistent when they’d been in the ‘why?’ phase of toddlerhood. “Yes.”

She smiled, seeming honestly glad. “Mages aren’t allowed to marry, not here or any other Circle. They annul it if you do, and take away any children.” Her smile disappeared, her mouth gaining a frown and her brown eyes becoming somber. “Will they annul yours?”

“Only a Keeper can annul a bonding. Last time I checked, the Chantry didn’t have one at their disposal.”

“Oh!” The smile returned, wider this time. “What’s his name?”

Líadan raised an eyebrow. “How do you know it’s a him?” Despite everything going on, Sylvie’s blush made Líadan laugh. “Fine. It’s a him, but I’m not telling you his name. Now, you’ve reached your limit of questions for the day. So, go.”

“But—”

“Go.”

Sylvie huffed, and then trotted through the room and out the door, to do whatever it was young mages did after their lessons. Líadan preferred not to think about it, given the gulf in between their ages, and because she had no idea when she’d see her bondmate again. It’d been too long already, and would only be much, much longer.

And so it went. Each day brought a new peppering of questions from the apprentices, frustrating lessons with frustrated teachers, missing her bondmate, missing her children, frantically trying to find a way out, trying to determine for sure if her children were safe, and every one of those days began with a meeting with Meredith. And on each of those mornings, Meredith brought with her some sort of revelation that Líadan didn’t want to hear.

Líadan watched the dust motes dancing in the shaft of morning sunlight shining through one of Meredith’s windows as Meredith again implored her to be reasonable. Surprisingly, she managed not to sound condescending or angry; she pulled off concerned rather well. It was one reason of many why these meetings with Meredith left Líadan in a state of confusion. Sometimes, she found herself almost respecting Meredith. Rarely did the Knight-Commander level insults, rarely was she impolite or uncivil. Their discussions were often sharp and always charged, but Líadan never felt immediately threatened, nor did she believe Meredith had once lied to her. Yet, setting all of that aside, Líadan was still trapped. She never fully respected Meredith, but the occasional compulsion to do so left her puzzled.

“I see that I have yet again lost your attention,” said Meredith.

Líadan blinked and drew her eyes away from the dust. “You were repeating yourself.”

“So I was.” Meredith drummed long, slim fingers on the dark, polished wood of her desk. “Tell me,” she said slowly, “would you like to know who murdered every single person in your clan?”

She wanted to know. Meredith knew she wanted to know. Yet, Líadan’s need to know fought with letting this woman be the one to tell her, because she damn well knew the information would be wielded like a weapon. “Not from you,” she said out loud.

Meredith smiled. It was the slow, calculated expression of a hunter who’d found their prey. “Then it pleases me even more to enlighten you: the killers of your clan were the captain of Kirkwall’s Guard, Aveline; the Grey Warden apostate, Anders; the storyteller, Varric; and the last living member of your clan—Merrill, I believe her name was.”

Líadan stood and pressed her hands down on the desktop. “You’re lying.”

“No.” Meredith shook her head in a slow parody of sympathy. “No. I’ve not yet lied to you and I am not about to start. I told you the truth about who is responsible for your clan’s demise. Ironic, isn’t it? The one survivor you were so desperate to find, leading you to make the mistakes that brought you here, turns out to be the perpetrator you wanted to exact revenge upon. It’s so twisted, it’s almost delicious.”

It was true. It couldn’t _not_ be, not with how rigorously Dalish burial customs had been followed. Not with how the camp hadn’t been looted. But how? How could Merrill have _done_ that to the clan? Why would she have done it? And Líadan couldn’t figure out if she loved Merrill because she was the last surviving member of her clan, or hated her for being part of the group who’d killed them.

“You are free to leave my office,” Meredith said after a moment. “And take those heavy thoughts of yours with you. Sets a bad tone for the day.”

It left Líadan in a state where she wanted to deal with Orsino even less than usual, which wasn’t much in the first place. While Líadan didn’t mind mornings nearly so much as Malcolm did, she wasn’t very keen on them, either. Coupled with Meredith’s daily chat and Orsino’s daily not-so-hidden plea to submit, Líadan really had started to understand why Malcolm hated mornings so much. All Líadan wanted to do was be left alone to think on whether or not Meredith had told her the truth, and if she had, what could possibly have driven Merrill to do such a thing.

Instead, Orsino wanted to chat, launching into what he was determined to talk about before they’d taken a step away from Meredith’s door. “I’m having a different teacher assigned to you for basic magic,” he said rather cheerfully, as if this were a good thing.

Líadan gave him a sidelong look. “You’re fond of wasting other people’s time, aren’t you?”

“You give up too easily. I’d thought better of the Dalish.”

“And you don’t like to face reality. We all have our faults.” Líadan didn’t directly react to the insult. If she gave up too easily, she wouldn’t have attempted any sort of lessons in healing after her unproductive ones with Marethari. If she gave up too easily, she and Malcolm never would have made it through their first year together. If she gave up too easily, she would’ve resigned herself to never seeing him again. Instead, she planned on returning, or having him join her and the children, but she had to escape this Creators-forsaken prison first.

“Reality,” Orsino said sharply, “is being denied freedom simply for what we are.”

“Then we agree on something. Unlike you, however, I intend on regaining mine, because I do not give up too easily.”

“That would be unwise.”

“I’m not going to become complacent and docile, penned in and cowering—”

“It’s called living. Many of us are fond of it.” Orsino’s eyes flicked toward where Ser Ruvena trailed a few steps behind them, as if reminding Líadan of the templar’s presence.

She didn’t care, because she was fairly certain they didn’t much care, either. Cullen knew perfectly well what she was trying to plan, and beyond counseling caution, he’d done nothing else to stop her. “You are only fond of this because you know nothing about what living really is.”

His head snapped around toward her, his anger causing his brows to slash downward, and his deep fear widening his eyes. “Do you want to find out what it’s like not being alive? Then keep refusing to undergo the Harrowing.”

“The Dalish do not submit.”

Orsino returned to looking forward as he let a long breath out. “Why? Why would you risk the end of Meredith’s patience and Tranquility for a quaint belief of a people who chose to wander forever?”

“At least we aren’t condemned to live and die on a single slab of cold stone.”

“Just because you wander in circles doesn’t mean you don’t end the same as we do—nowhere, which is the same place as you started. That is exactly where you are taking yourself. She _will_ make you Tranquil if you don’t change your mind. What must I say to get through to you?”

“I’ll die first.”

Orsino laughed, a single, short bark that effectively communicated how preposterous he believed her claim to be. “Oh, that isn’t a choice she’ll leave up to you.”

Her fingers curled into fists and she refused to look at him. “I’ll find a way.”

“For someone so insistent on living, I would be surprised if you could find death as easily as you assume.”

There was no reply for that. Not a single one that didn’t sound like an unhinged rant.

He shook his head slowly. “If nothing else compels you, then you should consider your children.”

“They’re not up for discussion with you.” She had no idea why Orsino was so focused on Meredith’s threats, or why he was so desperate to convince her to jump into the Beyond and an eagerly waiting nest of demons.

“How do you think they would feel to find out their mother was no longer a person?” Orsino asked.

Sometimes, it felt like he ignored her wishes more than Meredith did.

Abandoned, Líadan knew, a hurt twisting in her heart at the thought. They’d feel like orphans, really, if they remained here, if Malcolm couldn’t free them. Deciding to go through the Harrowing seemed a simple thing to most, one with a forgone conclusion of success because she’d already faced many demons already. A quick Harrowing, refusing another demon, be given Enchanter status, moved out of the dormitory, and no longer subject to morning talks with Meredith. A simple, easy thing. Yet she would not be who she was if she submitted to a Harrowing, and her children would _know_ that, and it would set a poor example for what they should do during their time here. No. They should not submit, and she would not submit. She wouldn’t do it no matter how easy a decision it seemed to others. She could not submit.

“They would understand,” she said out loud. They would hurt, but they would understand. But there was a nameless hurt in her own heart at the thought of leaving them.

“I am not so sure they would,” said Orsino.

Líadan said nothing, because she could not promise control of her temper if their conversation continued.

What she discovered later was that Orsino had neglected to tell her exactly who had replaced Pauline. So when Líadan entered the small solar Pauline had preferred, she was more than a little surprised to find Betrys sitting comfortably in an overstuffed chair, knitting needles clacking away.

“Have none of you anything else to do but waste your time?” Líadan asked.

Just outside the door, Ser Ruvena did little to cover a quiet laugh.

Betrys stopped her knitting long enough to raise an eyebrow at Líadan. “And what else would you be doing with your time, pray tell?”

Líadan gestured at the room around them. “Not… this. Not trying to learn something that I’m never going to learn to do. I can tell you all about it. I can outline every single step. I can guide another mage into doing it, but I can’t do it myself.”

The needles went back to their clacking. “Still doesn’t explain to me what you’d be doing, otherwise.”

Líadan gritted her teeth, frustrated at how it seemed like every single mage in here was perfectly fine with being caged, as if it were a normal state of being that needed to be maintained, when it was very much the opposite. “Planning escape? Fomenting rebellion? Plotting the downfall of the Chantry? Figuring out a way to see my children? Finding a way home? I’m sure I can think of more. How are you all so content here, locked up, rarely going outside? I’m crawling out of my skin.”

Betrys nodded. “You want to fight.”

These were a very strange sort of people. Every indication of a war going on around them, involving them, and yet they went on without participating. “Of course I do. Don’t you? Doesn’t everyone in here?”

“No, we don’t want to fight. We just want everything to be normal. No Harrowing, no Tranquil, and no one dying. It isn’t much that we ask.”

“You aren’t getting it by asking nicely. Fighting might be your only option.”

“That would lead to more dying, which we’re trying to avoid.”

Something was seriously wrong with these people, it was all Líadan could figure. “You’re dying anyway, even if you don’t know it.”

Betrys halted again, her eyes lifting enough to look straight at Líadan. “And you’re just bursting with life, are you?”

“No. I’m dying, too. The difference is that my eyes are open to see it.” She knew every moment spent restrained in here was a death to part of who she was, the very definition of herself that she carried. She wasn’t going to just let that part of herself go without a fight, and so she fought, and she wouldn’t stop until death forced her.

“Yet your daughter flourishes. She’s quite a gift.”

“That’s what my people call it. The Gift. And she got it.”

Betrys chewed on the information, a finger running up and down a knitting needle. “Your son does not.”

“No, no magic at all. None.” Cáel not having magic, Líadan knew, wouldn’t horrify Morrigan if she ever found out. Cáel’s _dislike_ of magic, however, could possibly leave Morrigan speechless. It would be worth it to see, if it could ever be arranged.

A small smile tweaked the corners of Betrys’ mouth. “Then you’ll be happy to know that he informs his instructors—myself included—about it several times a day.”

“Good.” A flare of pride curled Líadan’s lips into a brief smile. “Good.”

After giving Líadan an exasperated look, and then letting out a sigh, Betrys returned to her momentarily abandoned knitting. The clacking of the needles followed Líadan out the door.

The next morning, Meredith told Líadan that she was thinking of having Cáel made a templar initiate. She gave the pronouncement without even glancing up from where she wrote notes on a sheet of paper, nor did she look up when she dipped the tip of her quill into the inkwell, nor did she look up when she returned to her writing. Before Meredith had said anything, Líadan had watched Meredith’s actions while thinking of Malcolm. He’d grudgingly taken to doing paperwork in the earlier part of morning, just after everyone broke their fasts. Except he tended to write using the graphite sticks Hildur kept him supplied with, because they were quicker and easier to deal with than quill and ink. The graphite left dark smudges on his hands, particularly where the stick rested in the space between his thumb and forefinger. He often forgot and rubbed at his face or forehead as his thoughts deepened, leaving dark streaks of graphite behind. For some reason, even as Líadan looked at Meredith’s clean hands, the ink not leaving a mark on her, all she could see were Malcolm’s hands. Then when Meredith finally looked up, her face entirely neutral, Líadan could only see Malcolm’s brilliant smile when he looked up from his work and realized that Líadan was there.

That she could see such a thing in a place like this sharpened the pain of just how much she missed him.

“I had thought you would have a strong opinion over the fate of your son,” said Meredith.

The Knight-Commander’s voice finally jarred Líadan out of her memories. “I do.”

“I would like to hear it. Perhaps you’ve thought of an objection I have not.” Meredith carefully set down her quill and sat back.

This was one of the things that confounded Líadan about Meredith’s meetings. For all Líadan could determine, Meredith truly did listen. Líadan couldn’t fathom why Meredith would care so much to hear whatever she had to say, and knew she should suspect a trap. But part of her, a small part, refused to suspect such a thing, which confused the rest of her. Líadan settled on honesty in kind. “You’ve bought this up before and discarded it as an option. What’s changed?”

“I had not believed the blood kin of the fabled Morrigan would not manifest magic, and yet he has not in all the time he’s been here. Not on purpose, and not by accident. I am coming around to the fact that he might not prove a mage at all, yet he remains in my custody, as the child of a Circle mage.”

“I am _not_ —”

Meredith held up a hand. “But you are. Circle mages are not allowed to keep or raise their children. Commonly, they are not allowed to even meet. Apostates brought into the Circle with children are a slightly different matter, but the outcome is the same: the children remain in Chantry custody.If they have magic, they are trained at a Circle. If they do not, yet have the potential for martial skill, they are sent to the templars to become initiates. If they present with neither of those skills, they are trained to enter the Chantry’s clergy. Given your son’s aptitude for the blade, he presents as a good candidate for an initiate.”

“He’ll never be a templar.” The most she could see for him if Meredith forced this route and it was never stopped was for Cáel to end up like Alistair: a warrior good at templar abilities, but an awful templar.

“That isn’t your choice to make. Nor is it his. Along with not possessing magic, your son encourages acts of rebellion among the children. He is, to put it lightly, a bad influence on the others. He would do better with other outlets, I believe. Exhaustion from time spent training and sparring will leave him too tired to incite rebellion. It is a choice I may have to exercise.”

“He won’t do it.” Líadan also knew that her son would never be too tired to incite rebellion where he believed it necessary.

“Perhaps you didn’t hear me before: he does not get to make that choice, and neither do you. You have one choice left to you, and that is whether or not to undergo a Harrowing. See that you make that decision in a timely manner.”

The dismissal rang clear, and Líadan left Meredith’s office.

Unlike with previous mornings, Orsino was not waiting for her outside Meredith’s door. Nor was Ser Keran there, even though he’d escorted her here earlier. Neither of them, but still a templar waited: Knight-Captain Cullen.

Líadan used all of her restraint and waited to ask her first question until they were halfway down the corridor. But when she started to ask, he gave a quick jerk of his head to silence her.

She narrowed her eyes at him.

Sadly, he didn’t appear threatened. He half-rolled his eyes in exasperation, and then gestured toward a slightly open door that led to—Líadan actually had no idea where it led to, but she imagined it was a safe place to converse. So she went in.

As soon as he’d shut the door behind him, she asked, “Are my children all right?”

He took a glowstone from the pouch at his belt as he nodded. “They’re still safe. I check on them myself. The templars who guard them will _not_ harm them—Knight-Commander Meredith has threatened them with death, should anything happen. While there may be templars who don’t care about a mage’s life, they do care for their own lives. It is never wise to call the Knight-Commander’s bluffs. She doesn’t bluff. She tells you the truth and then carries it through.” He sighed. “She did give them a mercy and did not separate them. Ava, as I’m sure you’ve heard, has been a surprisingly good student. Cáel, as I’m sure you’ve also heard, is thoroughly bored and does not use his time wisely.”

“Of course he’s bored. He isn’t a mage. And since he isn’t a mage, the Knight-Commander told me this morning she was thinking of making him a templar initiate.”

He raised his eyebrows. “That would be news to me, and I traditionally decide whether or not an applicant becomes an initiate, not Knight-Commander Meredith. She recommends them at times, but since I oversee all training, the final decision rests with me. No matter. I suspect she was attempting to get to you. As far as I’ve heard from her, it’s merely a matter of time before his magic appears. She’s mentioned in passing the idea of sending him to the Chantry until it does manifest, but she decided against it, last I heard.”

“Why?”

“She believes it would be cruel, honestly. Cruel to separate brother and sister after recently being separated from the rest of their family.”

It sounded so sympathetic that Líadan thought it couldn’t possibly be true. “Do you believe her?”

Cullen rolled the glowstone in his palm as he thought over his answer. Then he said, “I want to. I know her history, about why she became a templar. I know she does, in fact, feel very strongly about family ties. And I have never once witnessed her being cruel to a child, mage or not. But… I also do not doubt that she wants Cáel close. If he were remanded to the Grand Cleric’s custody, it wouldn’t be long for word to get out that you’re here.”

“So you haven’t been able to yet.”

His soft huff of laughter was more scoff than amusement. “You aren’t the only one who’s trapped. The Knight-Commander will not allow me to leave the Gallows—or allow any like-minded templars to leave, either. The only reason I haven’t been reassigned like Ser Carver is because I’m the Knight-Captain, and it would bring more questions than she’d like. Every method I had for getting information in and out of here has vanished, for all intents and purposes. There used to be contraband everywhere, and now it isn’t, nothing at all, and the mages are just as bewildered. I’m searching for whatever outlet I can, but I’ve yet to meet with success. I’m sorry.”

Líadan stared into the shadows, willing them to produce an exit. “There’s a way out. I’ll find it.”

“I’d rather you not—”

She spun and knocked the glowstone from Cullen’s hand, and then grabbed the dagger from the sheath hanging from his belt. As the glowstone skittered into the darkness, she used her shoulder to push the templar into the wall, and then brought the stolen dagger to his throat. “I will find it, and you will not stop me.”

Cullen slowly looked down at the dagger, and then right at Líadan. “I’d rather you not try unless we’re _certain_ you’ll get out, because you’ll have one chance. One. If you fail, the Knight-Commander will make you Tranquil right then and there.”

Líadan didn’t move the dagger. After what felt like ages left at the mercy of others, she had a weapon, and with it, she could regain some control. She didn’t want to let it go, no matter the truth she heard in Cullen’s words. “You said Meredith’s patience wouldn’t last forever.”

“It won’t. But Maker knows it will last much longer than if you attempted escape and failed. She’s treating you like an apprentice, and you are cooperating, to an extent. For that, I can see her patience extending as far as it needs to. She has time, and you do not. She believes she can continue with this pressure until it breaks you and you try to escape. Then she will catch you, make you Tranquil, and blame you for it.”

She shifted her thumb on the leather grip as she mulled over his warning. It did a lot to explain why her meetings with Meredith were so confusing, and why Orsino kept pushing teachers on her after others gave up. It did a lot to explain why Meredith kept threatening to make Cáel a templar initiate. It was a game. Líadan didn’t want Meredith to win, but she didn’t want to become complacent, either. She almost felt certain that Cullen was her ally and not her enemy, but she couldn’t be absolutely sure. What she did know was that killing him would not help her. She sighed and stepped away from Cullen. Then she held up the stolen dagger. “You wouldn’t let me keep this, would you?”

He extended an open hand, even as he chuckled, which was remarkable considering that she’d just threatened him.

“Right, wouldn’t want people to think I’m an ineffective blood mage.” She handed over the dagger, the grip slapping against Cullen’s gloved palm with more force than necessary.

“Patience will see you through this,” he said as he slid the dagger back into its sheath. “Be patient.”

Already, Líadan fought a near constant rage at being held behind human-built stone walls. The energy had nowhere to go, and it remained trapped and writhing within. She could be patient. She was patient when she’d taught apprentice hunters in her clan. She was patient with Malcolm. She was patient with her children. But all of those times, she’d chosen to do so. She could come and go at her own will, pausing to gather herself when needed. Here, the pressure did not relent. She’d been thrown into this cage and its absurd game against her will.

“I don’t know if I can.”

“You’ll get out of here, I promise. I just can’t promise quickly.”

“If I can’t even plan, if I can’t even hold the hope of escaping, I don’t know how long I can last.”

“Then plan, if it will help you. But whatever plan you make, you need to remember that it has to get you to the Grey Wardens or Ferelden as quickly as possible. Otherwise, you’ll be tracked down using your phylactery and dragged back.” Cullen frowned. “If you don’t provoke them into killing you first, which is probably the more likely situation if you manage to get entirely out of the Gallows.”

She’d forgotten about the phylactery. It piled on, one more insult on a stack of them, and served to infuriate her more. And her blood wouldn’t have been the only blood they took. They would have created phylacteries for her children as well, and that created within her an emotion beyond fury. And she could do nothing.

Cullen was giving her a wary look, but wisely did not ask. “For those reasons, don’t act on it until we’re absolutely certain it will work.”

She could do that. Planning would give her a small amount of control. Not a lot, but perhaps it would be enough to keep her from giving in to her anger and the encroaching desperation. “Contrary to almost every experience I’ve had with templars before, I’m trusting you.” Almost trusted him, she amended in her thoughts. She still didn’t trust him enough to alert him to Ava’s ability. What would let her trust him with that, she didn’t know.

“I will not see your trust broken,” said Cullen, and then his eyes flicked to the door. “Yet, back to duty I must go. I’ll give you a moment to gather yourself. Ser Ruvena will be waiting outside.”

After she gave him a slight nod, he exited, closing the door behind him. In the far corner of the storeroom, the glowstone had guttered out. Líadan preferred it. In the dark, she couldn’t see the walls. She could pretend, for just a moment, that there were no walls at all.

Just for a moment, she was free.


	23. Chapter 23

“Formerly the Revered Mother Dorothea of Orlais, Divine Justinia V rose to power after the death of Divine Beatrix III in the year 9:34 of the Dragon Age. Little is known of Dorothea’s background before she joined the Chantry as an initiate. Within the Grand Cathedral, rivals suggest that her reticence in discussing her past means she's hiding something; few of her flock, however, can imagine her as anyone other than a gentle mother of obvious faith.

When Beatrix III was felled by a massive stroke, she survived just long enough to put forth Dorothea’s name as a candidate for her replacement. Grand Clerics from throughout Thedas flocked to Orlais for the Grand Consensus, a private meeting between the heads of all Chantries to select the next Divine.

Though ritual demanded the decision be unanimous, servants attending the Consensus whispered of heated debate over Dorothea's suitability. Her ‘worldly’ background and demonstrated forgiveness for sinners were held against her; ultimately, however, the will of Beatrix III prevailed, and Dorothea began her reign as Justinia V.”

—from _The Modern History of the Chantry_

**Malcolm**

“Leliana’s gone,” Malcolm said to Wynne as they loaded up their horses.

She concentrated on counterbalancing her pack with a separate saddlebag. “Yes, I had noticed. Thank you.”

“She tell you she was leaving?”

“And why would she have told me?”

“Oh, I don’t know, probably the part about the both of you working for the Divine?”

“We all work for the Divine one way or another.”

Malcolm gritted his teeth and forced his fingers to slacken so he didn’t cinch anything too tight on Knock. He gave the horse a pat on the flank and then turned to face Wynne. “No. No, you don’t get to do that. You can’t just play out this vague act of yours, not with what’s at stake. She promised me, Wynne. She told me she would help me find my family once we got to Val Royeaux. She promised me, and she’s gone the very next day, and I should have known better. Are you like her, now? Are you going to do what she did during the Blight?”

Wynne had the decency to look startled. “No, of course not.”

“Have you been working with her?”

“I have, yes. At the Divine’s request.”

“How long?”

“How long, what?”

She had to make it difficult. She couldn’t just answer the sodding questions that he’d waited too long to ask. “Wynne.”

“Six years, give or take a few months.”

The entirety of Ava’s life. Every time she’d visited them in Denerim, every season she served as court mage, every word of every conversation, she’d been working for the Divine. Working with Leliana. The entire time, just like Leliana, she hadn’t been who she was.

“Six! Why? Why would you agree to work for the Divine? And for six years? Why would you even _trust_ Leliana after what she did?”

She sighed, but it was weary and sad, and entirely without frustration. “I imagine for the same reason as you.”

“What reason would that be? It’d better be a good one, whatever it is. And it’s a reason now gone, by the way. Like Leliana is. Gone.”

Wynne did not sigh this time, nor did she directly address his frustration. “Hope. Leliana and the Divine offered me the chance to find a way to reverse Tranquility. To restore a mage once thought irreparably broken.”

Then he silently waited as Wynne finished tying the flap of her pack, knowing there had to be a point coming from somewhere.

Then Wynne held her hands out in front of her, palms down. “These hands are a healer’s hands. If I am anything, I am a healer. I mend what is torn, cure who is sick, repair what is broken. When breath and heartbeat have ceased, yet the spirit clings precariously to its body, I can coax breath and heartbeat to return. I can bring a person from the absolute precipice of death and make them whole. There have always been two absolute things I cannot do as a healer—I cannot bring back a life that has already fled this realm, and I cannot restore a Tranquil mage to the person they truly are.”

Malcolm alternated looking at Wynne’s hands and her face. Her hands did not shake, though they’d begun the process of becoming knobby as joints did as they aged, and he knew those very hands had healed him more times than he could count. Without Wynne’s ability to heal, he would have been dead several times over, as would his friends and family. In the years since the Blight, Wynne’s face had earned a few more wrinkles, mostly around the eyes from squinting into the sun, and then around the mouth, the toll of smiles and frowns both. Yet her eyes were still the same clear blue they’d always been, and honesty filled them. Her look on him was the same one he’d seen many times when she provided comfort and guidance to him, or to Líadan or Alistair, when she took on the caring persona of a healer and healed even the wounds that could never be seen.

Then he remembered what Anders had told him, back when he’d been Anders, back when he’d been better at fighting off Vengeance’s takeover: out of all the things he was, he was a healer first. It wasn’t so much a choice as it was his very being. It was a thing he did, and did well, and couldn’t fathom a version of himself who could not.

Wynne had once been Anders’ teacher, and she found the same sense of self in her healing, and felt the same frustration when faced with a limitation. Six years ago, she’d been a healer offered the chance to find a way to heal what once could not be. It would be difficult for any mage to turn down the chance. For a healer, it would be unthinkable.

“And now you can,” he said quietly.

She nodded. “Or will be able to, soon. I could not turn that opportunity down. I doubt any mage could have, especially not a healer.” Her hands returned to her sides. “Now do you see why?”

“I do.”

Her smile on him was warm and kind, the very healer he’d known for years. “And you and your family, young man, are another thing that needs mending. I would see it mended. As for Leliana, your guess is truly as good as mine. We have not spoken often since the Divine’s initial offer and assignment, nor have we spoken in great detail. She is to help me, yet I rarely know in what way.” The smile fell away, and a scowl slipped its way back in. “That she left unannounced does not make me comfortable, and she and I will be exchanging some words should we cross paths again.”

“I thought you had words to exchange with Líadan?”

“Oh, don’t you worry. I haven’t lost those, either.”

He gave her a crooked grin before he became serious again. “I need to be able to trust you. I really do.”

“Child, you can always trust me. And if you cannot bring yourself to trust me, trust the spirit of faith that sustains me.”

“I do. I will. Just… don’t let it be another mistake.” She was the only person he had left out here to trust. There was Shale, at least once she returned, but she wasn’t good at the mushy stuff that involved a little too much emotion. She’d have his back in a battle, certainly. But she wouldn’t be much good at listening to him talk things out. So, if Wynne snapped his trust like one would a twig, he himself might snap along with it.

“It will not be,” said Wynne.

“We need to go,” Evangeline shouted over at them from the front of their forming line.

Malcolm exchanged nods with Wynne, mounted his horse, and they were off.

With Leliana’s unannounced departure, the only thing that gave Malcolm hope was escalation of the civil war in Orlais. With Orlais too occupied with themselves to care, and the Chantry geographically in the middle, Ferelden would probably be able to withstand any attacks, if the attacks even came at all. That meant he could bring his family home once he found them. And once he brought them home, they could stay, so long as he convinced Emrys or Feynriel to help. There was just that other tiny detail about not knowing where they were, and the one person who stood the best chance of helping had sodding disappeared in the night.

The stupid pressgangs at least gave him someone to work out his anger on, and the Fereldan in him took great glee in seeing Orlais descending into the same sort of madness that had taken Ferelden during the Fifth Blight. Granted, he wasn’t exactly thrilled about people dying, but the overall effect of destabilizing Ferelden’s biggest threat did give good feelings. To him, anyway. Evangeline had become more terse and abrupt as the evidence pointing towards war mounted.

By the time they could see a distant Val Royeaux from the vantage point of a hill crest, the vast majority of the traffic on the road headed away from the city, the glut forcing them to slow their horses to a walk. The slog added hours to their journey, and they didn’t get to Val Royeaux until dusk. By the time they got within sight of the Sun Gates, they could see hundreds of fires from soldiers encamped around the city.

Various soldiers, knights, and men-at-arms silently eyed them as they headed straight for the city’s entrance, their way lit by the many campfires alongside the road. Under the eyes of more observers than any of them cared to count, they finally arrived at the gates.

They were closed.

“I thought the Sun Gates are never closed,” said Finn.

“They are not,” said Evangeline.

“Not sure about you,” said Rhys, “but they look closed to me.”

Adrian pointed toward the empty space at the top of the city wall, where one of the guards had taken off running soon after their party had come into view. “I wonder where he’s gone off to,” she said.

“Probably to fetch the welcoming party,” said Malcolm. “A sovereign says it’s not the friendly sort.”

“I believe I will pass,” said Wynne.

“Anyone think we should run?” asked Finn. “Considering that we’re certain to meet with violence once those gates open. Maybe we shouldn’t want to go into the city.”

“It would do you no good,” said Evangeline.

“I don’t know,” said Malcolm. “Technically, some of us could go back to Ferelden.”

“There’s a joke in there,” said Rhys. “Or an insult. Or both.”

“Both,” said Finn.

They continued to wait as the guards stared down at them and refused to answer questions, and at the same time, the soldiers loitering on the sides of the road studied them and never quite wandered away from their weapons. The sun finished setting and nothing changed except the lighting of additional fires and the darkening of the shadows.

The Sun Gates opened. Lord Seeker Nicanor rode at the front of a company of Seekers and templars, all of them carrying torches that burned brightly in the dark night. He’d declined to wear a helm, and his satisfied smirk made Malcolm’s sword arm itchy.

“Why are the Seekers here to greet us?” Adrian asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” Malcolm said as he watched Evangeline and Nicanor begin to glare at each other. “Why don’t you ask Sister Nightingale? Oh! Oh, wait! We can’t because she’s gone and probably betrayed us, and that’s why the Seekers are here waiting. For us. Because she betrayed us, being a Seeker and all herself, and now we’re effectively entirely screwed.”

Adrian’s eyebrow rose. “What did she do to you?”

Malcolm gestured at the approaching Seekers. “Aside from them, you mean?”

“Obviously.”

“Then, aside from them, she didn’t do much to _me_ personally. Yet.” By this time, he knew, she very well might have, but he didn’t have proof, nor did he exactly want it.

“What happened between her and your brother is between her and your brother,” said Wynne. “You need not be outraged on his behalf.”

“Oh, like you should talk. You’re outraged on other people’s behalf all the time.” It wasn’t as if Wynne didn’t _know_ what Leliana had promised to do and hadn’t and might be doing exactly the opposite. And it wasn’t as if Wynne didn’t _know_ that before she’d learned the truth, she’d been outraged on Malcolm’s behalf over what Líadan had supposedly done.

“I’d really like to know what she did,” said Adrian.

Malcolm noticed the Seekers massed behind Nicanor beginning to get antsy. “I’ll tell you the story after whatever happens here, if we aren’t dead because we were betrayed. I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

“With your decided lack of optimism, I’m surprised you managed to survive the Blight,” said Rhys.

“Optimism was my brother’s job.”

“And what was yours?”

“Comedic relief,” said Wynne.

“That’s the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me!” Malcolm said to her. “What if the Seekers kill us and it’s the last thing you ever say to me?”

Nicanor let out a long, loud, and overly dramatic sigh. “We are not going to kill you.”

Malcolm pretended to be puzzled as he looked between his small party and Nicanor’s sizable one. “Then what’s with bringing the whole company of Seekers with you?”

“We are to escort you to see the Divine.”

“Right _now_?”

Nicanor frowned at him. “Yes, right now. When the Divine requests your presence, you don’t keep Her Perfection waiting.”

“Does Her Perfection know how long it’s been since we’ve had proper baths?” The waterskins had made cursory bathing possible, but nothing got rid the grime and lingering sweat like a decent bath did. It just felt _wrong_ to go see the Divine in the Grand Cathedral while smelling like the inside of a boot. He also had no particular inclination to die smelling like the inside of a boot, either.

“The Divine is aware that you have been on the road, yet Most Holy has requested the presence of your party immediately upon arrival.”

“And if I don’t want to go?”

“You don’t get to decide, Warden-Lieutenant,” said Nicanor. “You’re going. Now, are we done with the delays? Or have you more objections?”

Well, he had _asked_. Malcolm made a production out of fumbling at his saddlebag. “If you’re up for listening, I’ve an entire list—”

“We will go as ordered, Lord Seeker,” said Evangeline.

Templars and their bloody rules and following hierarchies and such. And then there was the low tolerance for jokes. Maybe if they subscribed to some sort of humor, they wouldn’t be so dour all the time. Besides, Malcolm was still somewhat certain that they were being led to their executions. Clandestine, sure, but still dead at the end.

He shot Evangeline a dirty look, but she ignored him.

To Malcolm’s surprise, Nicanor had Evangeline ride separately with him, and delegated the responsibility of escorting the rest of them to the Grand Cathedral to another Seeker. Then he wasn’t surprised, because he realized Nicanor would be getting Evangeline’s report while the rest of them went on their little death march to see the Divine. The soldiers outside the gates gave them sympathetic looks as they rode past them and into Val Royeaux, which Malcolm took as a sign that they’d come to the same conclusion as he had.

There was little talking on their ride, not while surrounded on all sides by Seekers and templars on horseback as they clopped through the streets of Val Royeaux. Surprisingly, it wasn’t the two towers of the Grand Cathedral that dominated the night skyline of the city—it was the White Spire. Compared to the Grand Cathedral’s towers, the Spire was lit brilliantly by what Malcolm assumed to be magic, a white dagger thrusting into the sky above. It was, admittedly, quite striking, but he had no idea what it meant that the prison for the mages was given so much more attention than the headquarters of the Chantry.

The templars at the Grand Cathedral let them through the gates, and then they rode partway into the massive paved courtyard within before being corralled toward the stables. There, they were made to relinquish their horses to stablehands wearing the livery of the Chantry.

“This is a Grey Warden horse,” Malcolm said to the young man who’d come to lead Knock to a stable. Then he pointed over at Wynne’s horse. “So’s that one, which means we had better get both back in as good a condition as they are now. If I don’t get them back, or if I get them back looking worse for wear, the Wardens will be paying you a visit. You don’t want that, I promise.”

The stablehand gaped at him. Clearly, he hadn’t been warned that there was a Warden in the party of mages being escorted to see the Divine.

Malcolm softened a little, realizing at second glance that the stablehand couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen at best. So he offered a small smile and aimed for slightly amiable. “His name’s Knock. He likes apples. Take care of him and there’s some gold in it for you. Don’t take care of him and, well. You’d probably prefer a visit from darkspawn.”

“Knock?” came the lad’s half-strangled question.

“Don’t ask,” said Rhys.

“Enough chitchat,” said one of the Seekers. “Her Perfection is waiting.”

They crossed the empty courtyard, footsteps echoing on the massive stone walls wrapped around it. Then they were going up the steps and being ushered through the tall wooden doors of the main cathedral. While Malcolm had become disillusioned over the years about the religion he belonged to, it did not change the visceral awe he felt on entering the Grand Cathedral. He forced himself not to gawk at the stained glass windows running through the entire outside corridor, each panel depicting a moment from the life and death of Andraste. Only moonlight shone through them now, but even then their color and detail stunned him.

Ser Evangeline joined their party just outside another set of huge doors. Her lips were tightly closed and she offered nothing in the way of greeting or information aside from a nod. But her eyes squinted slightly, and her brow was just as slightly furrowed, as if she were troubled and attempting to hide it. But Evangeline was no bard, and each of the others could plainly see something bothered her.

The Seekers escorted them into the cavernous room, where they were immediately greeted by an Eternal Brazier larger than the one they’d found in the Frostback Mountains during the Blight. The flickering fires within the shallow bowl lent the only light to the room, as if the Chantry didn’t possess of any candles, glow lights, lamps, or even rushes for torches. Or, more than likely, the lack of light was for dramatic effect. Malcolm had to admit, Orlesians could do drama. Standing on both sides of the brazier were statues so tall that the heads nearly brushed the impossibly high vaulted ceiling—one statue being Archon Hessarian, and the other Andraste.

Along either side of a long red carpet that led straight down the middle of the room, templars stood guard, swords out and held in front of them with points on the ground. The gauntlet of templars and the red runner ended a short distance from the Sunburst Throne. Seated on that Sunburst Throne was the Divine, who waited for them to approach.

The small child in Malcolm was amazed. The adult Malcolm was worried.

Figures flanked the Divine on either side, but he couldn’t make them out until they were closer, penned in on either side by templars, with Andraste and Archon Hessarian looming over their backs. Behind the Divine sat priests in smaller chairs built in the style of the Sunburst Throne, but lacking an actual sunburst over them. As Malcolm and his group approached, he could see that a few of the priests held copies of the Chant, and the rest sat with hands primly resting on their laps, waiting.

Divine Justinia’s features became clear nearer the end of the gauntlet of templars. She wasn’t what Malcolm expected, though he wasn’t exactly sure what he had been expecting. Probably someone more of an age with Regula or Beatrix, but she was quite a bit younger, instead. She also had one of those faces that seemed familiar, even if you’d never met the person before. And either the Divine was the best actor Malcolm had ever encountered, or her gaze on them truly was warm, almost friendly and inviting. He certainly hadn’t been expecting _that_.

The figure on her right side turned out to be a now clearly incensed Nicanor. Malcolm wanted to ask Evangeline what she’d said to piss him off, but there was no way he could ask without being overheard by at least twenty people.

There was also the matter of the figure standing at Justinia’s left hand—Leliana. She stood _right there_ , straight-faced and unapologetic, like she hadn’t disappeared in the dead of night.

It was all Malcolm could do not to shout “Holy shit!” in the middle of the Grand Cathedral, in front of the Divine.

He idly wondered if Justinia was the type to be bothered by swearing.

They reached the end of the runner, and out of courtesy and tradition, each of them bowed to one knee. Justinia motioned for them to rise, and after her eyes appraised each one of them, they settled on Wynne.

“Senior Enchanter Wynne,” she said, her voice draped in the same warmth as her expression, “what did you find at Adamant?”

_Dead bodies_ , Malcolm thought. _Lots of them._ Somehow, he figured that wasn’t the information the Divine was looking for. He kept his mouth shut, for the moment unwilling to draw Justinia’s ire, and very unwilling to interrupt Wynne.

But Nicanor held no such qualms. “Your Perfection, you need not—”

Justinia held up a hand. “You do not decide what I need and need not know, Lord Seeker. You will be silent, and I will know what was found at Adamant.”

_Demons in walking undead bodies that_ really _wanted to eat your face._ Again, Malcolm kept it to himself. Though he decided he might say it at some point, considering how colossally screwed they were if Justinia didn’t approve of Pharamond’s discovery. With all the templars crowded into the room, there was no way they could make it out alive if they had to fight. They’d take out a goodly number of templars on their way, but he and his friends would still die in the end.

While he kept quiet, Wynne told the Divine what Pharamond’s research had revealed. She did not mention the dead bodies, the face-eating undead, and the only demon she did mention was the one Pharamond had invited in.

Of course, that set Nicanor right off, jabbing fingers at Pharamond and the other mages in turn. “Now you see what they have done! Their little ritual will nullify the one method templars have for neutering uncontrollable mages. There would be chaos. Either all uncontrollable mages would have to be culled, or the rest of Thedas will become Tevinter. Trust me when I say that it is not something you want.”

“No,” said Justinia, “it is not. I would not approve of the slaughter of mages any more than I would approve of the wanton application of Tranquility.” She paused a moment to see if Nicanor would find another objection, but he remained silent. “Some years ago, I requested the aid of Tranquil Pharamond and Senior Enchanter Wynne to investigate the nature of the Rite of Tranquility. I wanted to know if it could be done humanely, so as not to remove a mage’s soul. I wanted to know if it could be reversed, if Tranquility was rendered upon a mage unjustly.”

Malcolm couldn’t help his look of surprise toward Wynne. It wasn’t that he’d thought she was lying, but he hadn’t expected the Divine to confirm Wynne’s story herself. Wynne offered him a slight nod and a tiny, brief smile in return. He had to keep from rolling his eyes. She was still Wynne, obviously.

“Why, Most Holy? Why would you do this?” asked Nicanor.

Justinia’s voice quieted, compelling them all to listen closely. “Because mages are the Maker’s children, as we all are. Because of this, they are not to be tolerated, but cherished.” She gestured toward Pharamond. “This discovery provides us with an opportunity to treat them as they should be, and we now must decide upon how we shall proceed.”

Nicanor leapt down the step from where he stood beside the Divine to stand in front of her. “There is no choice, Your Perfection. It must be destroyed.”

“What?” shouted Rhys. “You can’t do that!”

“I can, and I will.” Nicanor drew his sword, and most of the templars in the vast room did the same. Then Nicanor took a step toward Rhys and a trembling Pharamond. “All who know of this rite of reversal must be put down.”

Malcolm drew his sword before he even realized that he had. Reversal had to exist. It had to be allowed to exist. It needed to be used to right all the wrongs done to mages, and he owed it to each mage he knew to do his best to assure that the reversal not die with them. If it came to a fight, he would fight.

Movement caught his attention across from him. When he switched his eyes from Nicanor and Rhys just enough to see, he met Leliana’s gaze, and she gave him a slight shake of her head.

He wasn’t sure what to make of it. She could be telling him it was a hopeless fight, which really wasn’t something that needed to be said. Or she could be telling him that it wasn’t necessary to fight, that something else was in the works. But there was the question of trust when it came to her. Multiple questions of trust. She’d given him her word that his newly-placed trust in her wasn’t unfounded. She’d promised to help. Yet, she’d left their company that same sodding night without a word to any of them, and then when their party reached Val Royeaux, they were immediately taken into custody and brought to the Divine in a room teeming with templars. And now here Leliana stood, and Malcolm had no idea if he’d misplaced his trust, or if she was proving more trustworthy than he ever could have imagined.

Then again, he was certain that he couldn’t trust Nicanor or any of the templars except maybe Evangeline.

The Divine rose from her chair. “Stop this at once!”

In that moment, when all their eyes had gone to the Divine, Leliana had moved from her place next to Justinia and grabbed the grip of Nicanor’s sword, her hand over his. Then she slowly shook her head at him, as if admonishing a wayward child.

Nicanor’s eyes flicked between Leliana and the Divine, and then he scowled as he sheathed his sword. The templars around the room followed suit. Leliana caught Malcolm’s gaze again, and then looked pointedly at his sword and then his scabbard. Malcolm grumbled under his breath and sheathed his, too. Even though he didn’t particularly want to.

“No matter what you decide,” said Wynne, “it’s too late. The message sent to Edmonde from Montsimmard wasn’t the only one. News that there is a method of reversal was sent to every First Enchanter of every Circle on Thedas that could be reached. And now they are traveling here for the conclave, knowing there is hope. Within a fortnight, the College of Enchanters will discuss the futures of all Circle mages.”

Malcolm believed the move both incredibly smart, and incredibly dumb. Great idea to get the information out, not so much a great idea to bring all the rest of the people who knew to the same place. Nicanor held the White Spire, and so bringing everyone there would be stupid. He’d simply kill them all once he had them together. Problem solved. Malcolm could easily see it, and didn’t see why people twice as smart as he was didn’t see it, too. Then again, maybe they didn’t believe anyone capable of killing that many people at once merely because of an ability they’d been born with. Malcolm wished he didn’t believe anyone capable of such a thing, including the Lord Seeker.

To say that Justinia seemed displeased to have the choice taken away from her was putting it mildly. She went from friendly and warm to glaring and fiery in an instant, but she recovered her composure nearly as quickly as Emrys had in the Fade.

“The College of Enchanters will still be allowed to meet,” she said evenly to Nicanor. “There, the mages will be allowed to debate what they will do about the Rite of Tranquility and its reversal. With hope, a compromise can be found that will prove agreeable to all parties, and matters will not descend into the chaos you foresee, Lord Seeker.”

Nicanor licked his lips as he assessed the situation. “I have conditions.”

Because of course he did.

The Divine indicated for Nicanor to continue.

“The mages and the Warden with them must be imprisoned during the wait. Further spread of information regarding the ritual—and especially how this ritual is carried out—must be prevented until policy is determined. That rule applies to everyone present here tonight. Enchanter Rhys and Enchanter Pharamond, should you teach anyone else how to perform the ritual, you will be punished with death, as will the person whom you taught.”

Rhys and Pharamond both gaped at him, but said nothing.

Nicanor took it as permission to continue. “Once the conclave is over, they may be released.”

“Imprisonment is unnecessary,” said Justinia. “Confinement to the White Spire will do, for both the mages and the Warden.” She looked directly at Malcolm, which was rather unnerving. “The Grey Wardens will be notified so that your detainment of two weeks will not provoke a battle with them.”

Leliana looked straight at him, her eyes imploring him not to make the statement he really wanted to make.

Trust. He had to trust her. So, he nodded and said nothing. It wasn’t like saying something to irritate the Divine would get him anywhere. Yelled at by the Divine perhaps, which would make a funny story later, if he lived through this. But it wouldn’t get the Wardens to act soon enough to get him out, and it wouldn’t change them being held at the White Spire for a fortnight, and it wouldn’t change that now he was being forcibly delayed from finding his family.

“Lastly,” Nicanor said once it became apparent that no one would offer argument, “Enchanter Pharamond must be made Tranquil again. He is not stable enough to withstand the assault of demons while he possesses magic.”

Shouts came up from every mage, save Pharamond himself. The former Tranquil fell to his knees, relief on his face instead of anger. Relief instead of the panic and fear that had held him as they traveled. Relief and mouthing ‘thank you’ as the others railed against the proclamation.

Malcolm said nothing, because he believed he understood. From what he’d heard of Pharamond’s nightmares, what Pharamond was going through was much like a Calling. Pharamond’s thousands of formerly empty memories had filled with emotion, and they had all flooded back to haunt him at once. All the while, demons waited on his doorstep, eager for one mistake, one vulnerability that would let them lay their claim. Tranquility or death seemed the safer, less frightening choice, a choice that would leave him free of demons both tangible and intangible. Much like a Calling, Tranquility would be a welcome end for Pharamond. And it seemed to be his choice, judging by his reaction. Malcolm wouldn’t deny him his choice. It wasn’t his place, and so he said nothing as the others argued.

Unsurprisingly, the Divine agreed to Nicanor’s demands. Then they were all herded out of the room and escorted to the White Spire, Rhys complaining bitterly about Pharamond’s sentence the entire way.

The complaining devolved into arguments amongst all of them once they reached the Spire’s front hall and the doors locked behind them. First Enchanter Edmonde was there to greet them, but none of them particularly cared to be greeted. The lone Seeker remaining with them declared they’d have to be searched, and his life was subsequently threatened.

He sighed and left it alone, but did turn his look to Malcolm. “Warden, you will have to relinquish your sword and shield to the templars here.”

“No.”

“Please cooperate,” said the Seeker.

Malcolm shook his head. “Say please all you like, but you still won’t get me to agree.” He didn’t particularly want to be the Theirin responsible for losing another family sword. Also, he really liked his sword, though he hadn’t told Alistair, since Alistair had insisted years ago that he use it. Malcolm had repeatedly declined until forced to use it as a replacement for Duncan’s broken sword. Duncan’s sword, which he’d had mounted, still hung in Alistair’s study. Useless, but valued for its sentimentality. The other half had been permanently lodged in an ogre’s eye. Alistair had understood why Malcolm hadn’t retrieved it.

But his current sword wasn’t just _any_ sword. It’d been Maric’s sword through most of the rebellion after he found it in the Deep Roads. And if he lost the sword, he’d just be setting a precedent for losing other things, like his brother’s kingdom.

“Do you honestly believe you’d be able to fight your way out?” asked Evangeline. She sounded more tired than anything, like she wished he’d cooperate so she could go take a nap sooner rather than later. Then again, it was the middle of the night, so it wasn’t unreasonable.

“Not right now,” he said. “But you never know when the opportunity will arise.”

“Just give it to them!” Pharamond snapped. “Holding onto it and blustering changes nothing! Nothing at all! It only postpones!”

Wynne cast a sad look at the shell of warring emotions that’d once been her friend, and then turned to Malcolm. “Unhinged as Pharamond has become, he does have a point.”

Malcolm scowled. “Fine.” He refused to feel guilty about coming off like a petulant child. After all, _he_ wasn’t heading right into a trap called a conclave, but _he_ was stuck here like the rest of them anyway, which meant his trip to go find his sodding family was postponed. And he still had no idea if Leliana had told the Divine or the Seekers or even the templars about Ava. Since she’d immediately broken her word about helping him, he could see how she’d easily break other promises. Andraste’s bones, but he really needed to stop giving people second and third chances when it came to trust.

“The templars here will take custody of your sword,” said Evangeline, “and not the Seekers.” She inclined her head toward a young templar standing expectantly nearby.

He stepped hesitantly forward, slowly extending his hands, as if waiting for Malcolm to snarl and snap at them. Which, given how he’d reacted, was a valid fear.

Wanting to prove that Fereldans were civilized, he slid his scabbard off his belt without removing the sword, and then handed it gently to the templar. The words that followed were not as civil as his actions. “That sword cannot be replaced. If I don’t get it back,” he said to the young templar, whom he’d trounced in the sparring ring on his last visit, “I will kill you myself.”

“I give you my word that your sword will be returned to you, Warden,” said the templar.

Evangeline met Malcolm’s eyes. “I will see to it,” she said to him in a firm tone.

After another moment of hesitation, Malcolm nodded.

“And your shield, Warden?” asked the young templar.

“I need it back, too,” said Malcolm. “Though it isn’t as irreplaceable as the sword. I’ll be really pissed if you lose the sword, but only miffed if you lose the shield.”

The templar gave him a slight bow. “Ser.” Then he trotted off, the sword and shield held tightly and closely to his body so as not to drop them.

Malcolm decided he should intimidate more often if it got results like that. Then again, maybe it was a lot harder to intimidate Fereldans compared to Orlesians. Or maybe he’d gotten scarier over the past few weeks. Knowing his people as he did, probably the first.

After the Seeker left, the few Spire templars on duty watched bemusedly as their group continued arguing through the corridors, not even stopping when Pharamond finally had his breakdown, sobbing as Evangeline, Wynne, and Edmonde escorted him to another room to help him regain his equilibrium. They rest of them didn’t stop when they were crammed into Edmonde’s office to wait for his return.

Rhys hadn’t quit going on about Pharamond’s Tranquility, though his remarks had become fewer in number, as well as quieter. Adrian had shifted from anger at Pharamond’s sentence to excitement over the conclave and its possibilities, which drove Malcolm up the wall because it killed him to see this many intelligent people not seeing the big giant trap waiting for them. Maker, he couldn’t see a real trap until he sodding _stepped_ in it and he could see this one.

“You shouldn’t do this,” he said as Adrian paced around the room, hands fluttering as she put forth her plans. “You shouldn’t gather every single one of you in the same room right under Nicanor’s nose.”

“And why not?” asked Adrian. “You keep saying we shouldn’t, but you don’t say why. It’s a fine opportunity, especially if they insist on disbanding the College afterward.”

Finn frowned from where he’d leaned against the wall. “I don’t know.”

“Because it’s a fine opportunity for a trap, that’s why,” said Malcolm. “Nicanor will find some random excuse and then kill you all.” He unhooked the clasp on his gorget and tossed it into the chair where he’d put his helm. His gloves followed, having been in his armor for far too long to keep it on now that they were indoors and he was disarmed. If it wouldn’t have been a pain in the ass to carry them to his room, he’d have taken off the other pieces, too.

“Just how to do you know that?” asked Adrian.

“He seems the type.”

“So instead of telling us what not to do, how about you do something to help?”

“Such as?” He assumed he was doing the most that he could by pointing things out. There wasn’t much else he could do, being non-magical as he was, and therefore having no place in the conclave the mages would have.

She motioned toward him. “You there, Grey Warden, standing there and doing absolutely nothing to help what you keep calling a hopeless situation. You have the power of conscription at your fingertips, and you say nothing of it to the Seekers or the templars or the Divine or to anyone.”

“What?” He barely refrained from gaping at her. “You don’t truly expect me to conscript all the mages here, do you?”

She stared at him.

So she _had_. “That’s not even possible. No, really,” he said to cut her off when she looked to object. “I have to be able to enforce a conscription. If you hadn’t noticed, I’m incredibly outnumbered.”

“But—”

“Also, I’m a prisoner just as much as you are.”

“They let you keep your armor.”

“Right, because I could totally fight my way out of here with my bare hands. Or I could somehow find a sword and shield and take on a hundred templars and come out unscathed. Yeah, no. How about I wait until Weisshaupt hears that one of their Wardens is being held by the Chantry, whereupon they’ll send a bunch of angry Wardens to liberate me if they keep me a day longer than the Divine said. And that’s if they even bother waiting that long. Meanwhile, if the lot of you could not go through with this meeting and end up dead, that would be great.”

Of course, Adrian didn’t believe him. “The Wardens would free only you?”

All right, so maybe he’d exaggerated a little. “They might conscript some mages. I don’t know, seeing as I’m not them.”

“But you know for sure they’ll come for you?”

“They have to. The second they let the Chantry start bossing them around about how and where to keep their Wardens, it’ll never stop. And since Wardens need to do pretty much anything to stop Blights, that means the Chantry can’t interfere, unless we all want to end up darkspawn, which I’m pretty sure no one wants.”

“Why?” asked Adrian.

Like he could say. “Reasons.”

“What reasons?”

“Maker, you’re worse than a four-year-old. Look, they’re reasons I’m not going to tell you in a Circle, so you should stop asking.” He wouldn’t tell her ever, but she didn’t need to know. Pick your battles and all that. It’d mostly worked when his children were toddlers, and he could see the application of it here and now. He was also cognizant of the fact that he was certain people did the same with him, and probably often.

Adrian bowed right up at the comparison, which wasn’t unexpected, but her retort was cut off by Wynne’s return, for Leliana walked in with her.

“You sold us out!” Rhys said on seeing her. “You sold us out and now Pharamond is going to be made Tranquil because you had to run to the Divine. Some Chantry sister you are.”

“Told you she was no sister,” said Malcolm. He had to concentrate on humor or he’d lose his temper and confront Leliana right there, in front of everyone. If he moved quickly and explosively enough, he was fairly certain he could overwhelm her. Maybe not for long, but at least long enough to ask the questions he needed answers to.

“Contrary to what any of you might believe,” said Leliana, “the Divine is on your side. My departure had everything to do with protecting you and your knowledge, and nothing to do with the demise of any of you.”

“And how exactly does your slinking off in the middle of the night help us?” asked Malcolm.

“Most Holy needed to know as soon as possible so as to prepare the appropriate response. Divine Justinia is the highest player of the Grand Game.”

“Bullshit,” said Adrian. “The Divine doesn’t need to play the Game.”

“On the contrary, she plays it so well that it looks as if she does not,” said Leliana.

“What did you tell her?” asked Malcolm.

Leliana met his eyes but her expression hid everything of the truth. “I have told you what I can. The rest is up to the Divine.”

He crossed the room and backed her into the wall, his face merely inches from hers, wishing he’d kept his sword or even a dagger. Bare hands, as he’d pointed out to Adrian earlier, were useless. “I don’t care what you think you can tell me. You need to tell me. I trusted you! I trusted you to keep them safe and for all I know you’ve told the Divine and Maker knows who about her.”

“I cannot—”

Malcolm couldn’t accept any explanation from her, not while her expression was so controlled, not when her eyes were so veiled. Maybe if he could see the human being behind this Seeker or agent of the Divine or whoever she was, he’d be inclined to listen. But he had no intention of listening to this particular person. “No, no excuses. All you can do is prance along that path you claim to be set by the Maker, making promises and then casting them aside with impunity, not caring what sort of carnage you leave in your wake. Last time, it was a grown man. This time, _this_ time, it’s a little girl.”

There was a crack, a tiny one, a twitch at the corner of her eye, a brief downturn of her mouth at the mention of Ava, and some of her humanity peeked through.

But he couldn’t even be sure it wasn’t a calculated ploy. That was how far Leliana had taken everything.

“Malcolm,” she said without rancor, “I have my path to the Maker, as we all do.”

“How in good conscience can your Maker let you do these things? How do you even sleep at night, knowing that your actions might have hurt a child? How could—” Then, through the gap in his armor on his neck, where the gorget had protected him earlier, he felt the point of a knife.

He’d lost track of one of Leliana’s hands, and while he’d been shouting, she’d pulled a blade on him. After everything she’d done, after breaking his trust again, she’d taken the remains and pulverized them underneath the heel of her boot. “So that’s how it is,” he said.

“This is not the conversation we should have right now,” she said quietly. “I have duties I must attend to. And you, I believe, have some prayers that need saying.”

“ _You_ say them,” he said as he stepped out of the immediate range of her blade. “If you’re so close to the Maker, maybe he’ll listen to you.”

Leliana said nothing for a moment as she returned her dagger to its sheath. Then the glimpse of her humanity brightened, and there might have been empathy shining in her eyes, and possibly some tears, or maybe it was all still an act. “You say that as if I have not been doing so already. I pray for you and your family each day, and I will not stop. I never have, and I never will.”

_If this is the result, then maybe you should stop_ , he thought, but she’d already left, the door slowly swinging shut behind her.


End file.
